


In the Rot and the Rust

by KellerProcess



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Body-image issues, Canon Nonbinary Characters, Depression, Existential Crisis, Finger Sucking, Grief/Mourning, Heartbreak, Loss of love, Oral Sex, Other, Scars, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Weight Issues, beelzebub uses she/her pronouns but she doesn't even really appear, faith - Freeform, gabriel uses he/him pronouns, hastur has a penis, hastur has a vulva, hastur uses she/her pronouns, he's not coming back, ligur used he/him pronouns, major character death refers to Ligur, nothing graphically portrayed about these last four issues though, oh so much heartbreak, sandalphon has a penis, sandalphon has a vulva, sandalphon uses they/them pronouns, self-injury, seriously there is so much sex in this fic, sex against dumpsters, they change genitals a lot here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-09-29 20:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20442032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KellerProcess/pseuds/KellerProcess
Summary: Sandalphon was heaven’s most single-minded and implacable archangel.Until the day they realized they couldn’t have the love they sought.Hastur was hell’s most insatiable and sadistic duke.Until the day her partner died.A story about grief, longing, and why having sex against dumpsters isn’t half as bad as it sounds.(Please heed the tags. This fic goes to some very dark places in the last few chapters, and deals with suicidal ideation and situational depression, as well as discussions about mortality and death.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

Heaven was the best of all worlds, no doubt about it.

Long white halls. Pale light that cast no shadows.

Everything sterile and serene.

Like someone, just moments ago, had gone through it with holy fire. Smiting every speck of dust. Every piece of filth.

Earth turning slow and steady in the anteroom, the view through the windows changing in a blink, so you could watch everything that went on down there.

Quiet. So quiet.

Everything so quiet.

Everything but Sandalphon’s eyelashes as they stared at the turning globe before them.

They beat against each other, loud as wings in heaven’s clean quiet.

Sandalphon closed their eyelids.

Time was irrelevant in heaven.   
  
Had it been minutes or hours?

Days? Moments?

For once in their long life, they couldn’t say.

But did it really matter anymore?

Of course it didn’t. And it never would again.

Not unless they could somehow rewind time.

Not unless they could have kept from walking into Gabriel’s office just before he took that call.

You always knew what you were about here.

Until the day you didn’t.

***

Sandalphon had begun their study of humans for the same reason they did anything: to help Gabriel.  
  
Or, in this case, to help Gabriel understand just why humans tended to scream and hide whenever he appeared before them with more than one set of eyes and any number of wings—something that had happened with distressing frequency.

Well, distressing frequency for humans, anyway. Sandalphon had always thought it kind of funny to watch them run and cower behind something big, like a rock or a building.  
  
As if an archangel with a thousand eyes couldn’t see exactly where they’d run off to.  
  
But that was humans for you.

So … heh. Myopic.

So easy to turn to salt.

Beyond how not to scare humans, however, Gabriel hadn’t been interested in learning much else about them. Well, aside from what they liked to wear, something Sandalphon gladly kept him updated on. They didn’t give much of a damn about the “improvements” humans had made to fig leaves, but Gabriel looked so good in everything from venetian hose to Armani that—

_Well _now.

Anyway, what humans did or didn’t do really wasn’t that important. After all, if God hadn’t been incapable of mistakes, these stumbling little creatures would have qualified as one—and a big one at that. Not that they would ever question the Almighty, but taking an orangutan and giving it all the worst features of angels and demons, along with knowledge of its eventual demise, seemed like good way to fuck up everything.

Still, Sandalphon had kept one of their many eyes on humans. They had a handful of redeeming skills— chief among them: making exquisite clothes for Gabriel’s delectable body, and forming intense relationships among themselves.

(And a third thing: humans were also pleasantly flammable. But right now, that was entirely beside the point.)

But those intense relationships had made Sandalphon think. Humans were so clingy with each other, so passionate, so….

Exactly the opposite of angels. Who were many things, but never clingy or passionate.

And that was the problem.

The more Sandalphon watched them clinging and courting and wedding and kissing and fucking and longing, the more they realized what these odd little primates were feeling.

They were an angel. And they were many things.  
  
But when they were near Gabriel, when they even thought of Gabriel and what they wanted to do with him,_ to_ him, an angel they were not.

And they had spent millennia trying to make him _see_ what he was missing; what he could have if he’d only realize that courting, and clinging, and wanting, and, yes, even fucking weren’t bad at all.

And finally, finally, after so many centuries of gifts; and acts of service and devotion and time; and all of the other things human insisted you were supposed to do when you wanted to cling, and kiss, and court, and wed, and fuck—

After trying all of those and failing every time—

Sandalphon had finally realized the problem.

Gabriel simply did not understand anything they were trying to do. No, he’d never had cause to.

For thousands of years, he’d relied on Sandalphon to tell him everything he needed to know about humanity. And to Gabriel, that was very little indeed. Mainly: how to keep from frightening them, how to keep them from falling into the opposition’s clutches, and how to keep them changing their collective definition of “fashionable” every few months.   
  
He’d never cared for innuendo and implication. When you wanted him to realize something, you simply had to just spit it out. Oh, you had to make sure your spit was pretty as pearls, of course, but you had to speak the truth.

And so, Sandalphon had resolved to do just that.

***

Heaven was as wide and bright as a hospital, and it ran like one.

You always knew what you were supposed to do here.

The problems only happened when you knew what you _wanted _to do here.

Like, for example, drop-kick a very hard and heavy object through one of heaven’s windows.

Sandalphon kept his eyes shut as he tried to think of a suitable thing to kick. Unfortunately, the only thing that came to mind was Prince Beelzebub.

All of this was her fault.

  
***

Right. This wasn’t complicated.  
  
All he had to do was walk into Gabriel’s office.

Ask to speak to him.

Then tell him everything.

Right.

Okay.

Right.

Actually, no. That was incredibly complicated.

Time had no real meaning in heaven, so Sandalphon wasn’t sure how long they spent in the anteroom, pacing through iteration after iteration of their words.

_Sir, that bespoke Brioni suit looks wonderful on you! May I see you without it?_

No, far too much like one of those ridiculous human “pick-me-up lines.” Pickup lines? Well, whatever they were called, this wasn’t the right choice.

_Sir, I’ve learned something fascinating about humans today. It’s called sex! Would you like to try it with me?_

Oh, worse and worse!

_Sir, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it without preamble: I’ve been in love with you since the start of time and I need you and it’s not just because of your body but because of who you are and oh Lord what am I even saying here no this is the worst idea yet!_

“Okay,” they murmured, shaking out their arms as they rocked back onto their heels, then forward onto their toes. “Try again. Just … stay calm. And try again.”

_Sir—_

No. Too distant and impersonal for what they had to say. And anyway, nobody up here called him that. According to Gabriel, titles “disrupt they synergy we have together.”

Just Gabriel, then.

_Gabriel, I love you. Not in the way angels love each other, but the way humans do. Just as messy, but just as devoted. Do you love me that way too? Do you love me as anything else but your advisor and enforcer?_

Well….

Not bad.

Not _great_, but probably the best they could do.

_Right._

_Okay._

_I can do this._

_I _can_ do this._

Like all angels, Sandalphon didn’t need to breathe. Still, taking a breath in heaven’s airless vault and opening the glass door to Gabriel’s office made them feel much calmer.

Much more optimistic.

Gabriel stood behind his desk, leaning down to peer at the paperwork spread out before him. As he read, he slid his upper incisors along his lower lip before pulling it into his mouth.

He did that when he was deep in concentration. It was absolutely delectable, and the habit always made Sandalphon want to push him against one of the office windows and tear off his perfect suit so they could run their hands all over the perfection beneath.

_Gabriel, I want to kiss you. And undress you. Utterly expose that beautiful body you’ve chosen. And fuck you on top of your desk, on the floor, against the walls, and especially against the windows. I want you to wrap your legs around me and moan and scream while I fuck you to pieces._

_Then I want you to whisper my name while I make love to you and put you back together again. _

“Ah, Sandalphon!”

Sandalphon blinked and took a step back toward the doorframe.

Gabriel had straightened up from behind his desk, and the bright, curiosity-filled smile he directed at Sandalphon was the same one that never failed to make Sandalphon forget what they were about to say.

As Gabriel continued to look at them expectantly, Sandalphon realized they had done just that.

“What can I do for you?” Gabriel prompted.

“I … well.” They swallowed. “Gabriel, I’ve something I must tell you.”

“Yes?”

“You see, I—”

The ethereal cell phone on the desk rang, and Gabriel’s friendly, curious smile turned absolutely radiant.

“Hold that thought,” he said as he spun and hurried to his desk. The phone didn’t get a chance to ring again before Gabriel was pressing it to his ear.

“Archangel Gabriel,” he said in his usual professional tone, but the look in his eyes said that the call was anything but a professional one. “Yes, hello!”

Sandalphon’s back straightened and his eyes widened as his superior turned his back on them.

“Yes,” Gabriel chirped as he headed for the large windows behind his desk. “Yes,” he chirped again as he looked out of them. The view today was one of some wide-open field, Sandalphon dimly noted. Filled with flowers. Sunshine. Though Gabriel was now in profile, they caught themselves rolling up onto the tips of their toes and balancing like a bird to see him.

Why hadn’t they taken a taller body?

“Mhh.” Gabriel had been listening for quite some time now. “Yes. Yes, I’d love that. It’s business casual, though?” He listened, pursing his lips and nodding. “No, I know. I’m excited. It sounds exciting! But … business _casual_? It really would….” Another pause. “Hm. I could, I guess. But miracled clothing isn’t nearly as good as the real material thing.”

When one said the archangel Gabriel’s violet eyes lit up, they were not speaking metaphorically. They actually became a far brighter shade of purple, even lovelier to peer into.

And when they did, Sandalphon knew. He just knew.

Who was calling. And what this call was about.

“Of course! If you really don’t mind waiting while they alter it.” A small, secret smile. “Oh, really now? Okay, then. An hour works for me. I’ll see you there. Mh. Yes. You too, Beelzebub.”

Gabriel lowered the phone and blew across its pearlescent surface, powering it down.

He continued to stare out the window cupping his chin with two fingers and smiling.

He chuckled fondly, and Sandalphon knew it again.

Why humans compared it to the shattering of glass—of pale, fragile things.

They backed out of the room slowly, before Gabriel could remember they were there. Or perhaps in hope that Gabriel would remember they were there.

But he didn’t.

Sandalphon turned and fled.  
  
***

Sandalphon’s eyes fluttered open again.

Heaven was bright all around them. Bright and perfect and empty.

And that pale, fragile thing inside them kept breaking, and breaking, and breaking.

They didn’t know what they were about here anymore.

They couldn’t stay here.

Not in this relentless light.

The globe turned steadily before them as they approached it.

Where could they go to escape this feeling of collapse?

Earth was so small and yet so boundless.

Could it possibly contain this—multitude?

It would have to. Because heaven could not.

As Western Europe crawled into view, they vaguely wondered if they could find that field with its flowers. Instead, they chose the familiar, pressing their index finger gently into the divot that millions upon millions of touches had created over the years.

They did not look back as the light pulled them down, and down, and down.


	2. Chapter 2

At some point in Sandalphon’s service, the cities on which heaven looked out had stopped looking mostly the same. A few centuries ago, Sandalphon had found that Gabriel liked one of them in particular. As he’d explained it, he liked the layout and the colors, but he’d particularly liked the clothes. So when he and Sandalphon had started going there regularly to experience all three, the happy expression on Gabriel’s face decided it for Sandalphon: London was their favorite city too.  
  
And shortly after that, Sandalphon had decided that London had all the best churches too.  
  
As Sandalphon entered St. Mark’s Church Regent’s Park before sunrise, they wondered just how often they’d visited here without walking at Gabriel’s side. Enough, apparently, to realize that they enjoyed this particular church not only enough to visit today, but to settle in one of the chairs at the back. They wriggled slightly, frowned, then stood again and more firmly settled onto two of them. Sandalphon could, they supposed, have altered their body to fit just one of the blasted narrow seats, but they weren’t of a mood to take up less space.

_Stupid humans._ But the uncharitable thought wasn’t really for them, now was it?

They sat there a long time in the half-light, gazing at the quatrefoil window above the high altar.

_I remember when that was put in. A bit after the last world war, part of everything struggling to grow back. Nineteen-fifty-seven, wasn’t it? _

They turned to ask Gabriel—

Oh.

They went back to gazing.

The London churches that Sandalphon and Gabriel visited from time to time had many things in common: quiet chapels in which to think or pray; equally quiet arcades that swept the worshipper’s gaze up the nave to the altar at its apse; often a stand for votives that worshippers could light, as if to add a bit more light to their confused lives.

Those things were all well and good, naturally. Indeed, all churches were. No matter their size or architecture, they were, in Sandalphon’s opinion, some of humanity’s best attempts to show that they weren’t such a stunted little species after all. That they might even care, sometimes, to think of their Creator and give thanks to Her.

But Sandalphon had always liked the stained glass the best. Not the windows depicting their colleagues, though. Why did humans always make them look so stilted and delicate and simply _wrong_? The patterns, on the other hand? Oh, they were truly sublime.

It was easy to lose oneself inside them. To feel as though God was near.

“It’s not that I doubt you.” Sandalphon’s whisper sounded even smaller in the church’s grandeur. “I never have. I never shall. It’s just that … I wonder sometimes. At Your will. At Your ways. You don’t begrudge me that, do You? My imperfections. My weakness and lack of understanding?”

There was silence in the house of God.

Sandalphon bowed their head. They remained that way as they sensed the sun touching the window, raising its violet to purple, its cobalt to blue, its yellows to gold and its pinks to a startling magenta.

When he at last looked up, morning had broken.

Broken…. Funny how some words had more than one meaning.

“Amen,” they said. “Amen.”

Only a few candles burned in the stand near the altar, most of them nearly spent.

They should change that, shouldn’t they?

Sandalphon walked down the nave, bowed to the altar, then headed for the elegant stand. A wave of their hand replenished the wax and wicks of the five nearly burned-out candles. From that place deep inside them that had helped place the stars, they called forth a tendril of holy fire and touched it to each unburned, pristine wick.

“Amen,” they said again.

Before exiting the church, they stopped at the font to trail their fingers through the water within. The ripples troubled their reflection: to all human eyes, a middle-aged, balding, squat-bodied human with crooked teeth.

Could that have been it? Gabriel did like beautiful things, and his ideas of beauty were quite human.

No.

Even if they changed their body for the comeliest in heaven’s storerooms, they would still be Sandalphon.

But perhaps, if they had considered their choice more thoroughly at the start; could have given Gabriel a straight smile to admire and a firm, fit body to touch….

The reflection rippled again, and they winced, looking back up at the window.

“No good can come of this, Lord,” they said. “No, nothing good at all.”

There was silence in the house of God.

Sandalphon exited, letting double doors shut silently behind them.  



	3. Chapter 3

It was called “a gelato,” and the ice-cream vendor in Regent’s Park assured Sandalphon that it was “the best one we sell, if you ask me.”

Sandalphon hadn’t, but they bought one anyway.

“Excuse me?” the human called as Sandalphon left. “Excuse me, but you’ve overpaid—”

Sandalphon didn’t turn around. For one thing, their understanding of the concept of money was still quite shaky. On the other, they simply just could not be arsed to go back and figure out just how much of it they needed to take with them.

They didn’t want to encourage greed in a human—of course not. But surely a few spare pieces of paper and metal wouldn’t make them a miser.

Just as eating a small serving of this gelato wouldn’t turn an archangel into a glutton.

Sandalphon slumped onto a bench with a heavy sigh, then looked over the treat. Matter had such interesting tastes, especially the matter humans called “sweet.” They unwrapped the small utensil the seller had given them and pushed it into the gelato, admiring its give.

“Oi. Grille-face. This bench is taken.”

They knew that voice. Sandalphon startled and whipped their head to the left. They barely noticed the gelato falling from their hand and squishing against the path at their feet.

Duke Hastur peered back at them, half-slouched, half-splayed on the bench’s opposite end. She was dressed, as ever, in a tattered mackintosh and an equally tattered shirt and slacks, along with a stained and tattered tie. Her shock of white-blond hair looked like the cheap wig it was, just as it always did.

The acrid scent of demonic energy poured from her like the smoke from the foul cigarette clenched between her chapped, twisted lips.

And, just as ever, she was strangest and most disconcerting demon Sandalphon had ever seen.

They couldn’t stop looking at her. What in the hell was she doing here?

“Keep starin’, Halo Hairline. Maybe I’ll do somethin’ _evil_. Just for you.”

Speech returned to them before words did.

“Listen, Hastur—”

“_Duke_ Hastur to you.”

“—I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t particularly_ care_, either. But I’m not of a mood to trifle with it—whatever _it _is.”

“Not in the mood for me sitting here whilst I have a smoke?” Hastur shook herself as if she had feathers to ruffle. “Well, lah-de-dah. I’ve just as much right to this bench as you.” She turned her nose up at them. “Even more, seeing as I was here first.”

Earth wasn’t neutral ground. Far from it. Still, despite what humans thought, they did not actually have an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other, constantly battling for their souls. Both celestial and infernal beings tended not to interfere in one another’s work down here, except for under the most extraordinary of circumstances. So, even if Hastur was in this park to do something nefarious, Sandalphon couldn’t have done fuckall about it.

But nefarious work or no nefarious work, they did not have to indulge her antics.

“Well I’m certainly not moving,” Sandalphon informed her.

“_Ooo_-ooooh,” Hastur crooned. “Oh, I see. So this is the part where you tell _me_ to move, is it?”

Her inky eyes narrowed as Sandalphon stared into them. They reminded Sandalphon of black holes—indeed, Hastur may have even created those long ago, for all they knew.

Which was a far more fascinating idea than it was unnerving, really.

Sandalphon scowled. What the devil had they been thinking there?

“Yes, it is,” they said. “Move.”

Hastur looked as though she were actually thinking about obeying. But then she smiled and blew a cloud of smoke right into Sandalphon’s face.

“Tell you what. You kiss my arse, and maybe I’ll think about it.”

Really, Sandalphon didn’t have to take this, they decided as they backhanded the foul stench away. But leaving was now completely out of the question.

Hell had challenged. And heaven must answer.

“How about you kiss mine,” they growled, letting just a little of that same holy fire with which they’d lit the church’s candles curl up into the gaze they shot the duke.

Hastur’s head snapped back in surprise, like a snake’s might as it reared from a threat. But then she was all lazy, mocking smiles again. “It’s so blessed big that if I did that, I wouldn’t be done by year’s end.”

Sandalphon laughed then. But the laugh was like melting steel. “Human insult humor,” they sneered. “Nice. Oh, how very nice.”

Sandalphon surged across the bench, grabbed her by her lapels, and slammed her so hard against its back that her head bobbled and she swallowed her cigarette.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” they drawled as they stared into those bug-black eyes. “I don’t give a fig’s-end for your thoughts on my corporeal form. Now. Go fuck yourself, _Hastur_, or I’ll be the one fucking you.”

Hastur stared at them.

Sandalphon stared back.

_Shit. ‘I’ll fuck you up.’ I should have said—_

“I, er, I don’t understand half of what comes out of humans’ mouths these days, mind you, but I think you meant ‘I’ll be the one to fuck you up,’” Hastur supplied, before belching out a laugh that ended in a cloud of smoke. “Bless, though! Do all the higher-ups on your side have such filthy fucking mouths?”

She sounded as impressed as she looked.

“No,” Sandalphon growled, “when you piss us off, we do worse than swear. Now, are you going to move, or do I need to move you myself?”

Hastur’s twisted grin told them which she would prefer, but before Sandalphon could punch her in the jaw, something made them lower their arm.

The warmth of Hastur’s thin hands as they closed around their fist.

“All right, you win,” she conceded. “Let’s just … try this conversation again, yeah?”

“I don’t see as we’re having one.” But Sandalphon eased back to their side of the bench.

Truth be told, they were in even less of a mood to discorporate a duke of hell than they were to talk with one. Brawling with a demon that rivaled you in power was exhausting.

The paperwork that would come after, unthinkable.

Hastur straightened up and fished another cigarette from an inside pocket of her jacket as if nothing had happened. “You misunderstand,” she said as she caressed the end to life. “I wasn’t insulting you, or that nice posterior of yours.”

“I don’t give two damns in a—”

“No, no. Listen,” Hastur said, raising her hands in surrender. “All your mates up there—well, look.” She gestured with her cigarette out at the path before them, where a human in an outfit called “sweatpants and a sweatshirt” jogged past. Dark hair, broad chest, strong figure—fantastic rear! Dull brown eyes, though.

Disappointing.

“Just like that, aren’t they all?” Sandalphon swung their gaze back to Hastur. “You see a face or a body up there, ever, that looks like it didn’t come from some magazine advert?”

“I’m not—”

Hastur raised her hands again. “Not you, point is. No, you don’t need to do what they do. Because you don’t smile while you slip the knife out your sleeve. You scowl while you raise your fists. No knives necessary.” She brought the cigarette to her mouth and sucked down a breath. “I like that,” she finished, as the smoke popped from her lips. “That and a body that goes with it.

“So, yeah,” Hastur went on. “So if it came down to it, I _would_ kiss that nice arse of yours.”

Well.

Sandalphon had not been expecting—that, of all things. And what were they supposed to respond with, exactly?

The best they could come up with was: “All right.”

“So, I keep to my end, you keep to yours; I have this smoke, you finish your—uhm”—Hastur glanced at the overturned cup of gelato at Sandalphon’s feet—“your whatever, we go our separate ways?”

It wasn’t on for a demon to negotiate with an archangel, but Sandalphon just wanted this uncomfortable situation to be over so they could move on with their day on Earth. Even though they’d no idea what they would be moving on to or from.

“Very well,” they said anyway as they miracled the gelato back into its cup, and the cup and utensil back into their hand. But by now, they weren’t interested in its oversweet, thick taste or the way it devoted when pressed.

Meanwhile, Hastur puffed away, staring off into the distance at the joggers, the families and their pets, the obvious tourists on summer holiday, and the swans floating lazily across the glasslike water. Sandalphon hadn’t realized they’d been staring at her until Hastur shook her head and turned back toward them.

“What _is _it about me that’s so blessed fascinating to you today, mate?”

_It’s your eyes_, Sandalphon thought. _I just never noticed how black they were._

“It’s your eyes.”

For a blood-stopping second, Sandalphon thought they’d said it aloud.

“What about them?” they asked her when they realized they hadn’t.

“You’ve got this _look _in them. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was … not envy per se, but….” Hastur let her cigarette burn while she studied them, her expression unreadable. “Yeah, there we go! Despair’s not always just envy that’s too polite to announce itself, mind, but in your case, I think it’s got nothing to do with envy.”

“I have never felt such a thing as that,” Sandalphon sniffed. “Despair,” they scoffed, as though Hastur had just made up a particularly dim neologism.

“Yeah, bullshit you haven’t. I can smell it all over you. And I think I know what’s causing it, because I can’t smell him all over you.”

“I _beg _your pardon?”

“Well, no, I exaggerate. His smell’s all over you, but only because you’re his employee. You see, me and Ligur, we had this bet with ourselves: who’s fucking who Upstairs.” She gestured upward with her cigarette. “Now, when I said you and Archangel Fuckbuttons, he had a good laugh. Said your boss’d sooner fuck our boss than he would you.” Her smile turned hollow. “Well, seeing what happened, guess that means he was more right than me, that round.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Sandalphon insisted.

“Like heaven you don’t,” she said casually. “See, I’m a wrath demon at heart, but when you’re a duke, you’ve got to know a thing or two about each sin. And I _know_. All those looks you give him during those diplomatic meetings we have. You all moon-eyed when he says anything. If you can’t even control your lust when the court of hell’s looking at you, Satan knows what you do when we can’t see you.”

“What I feel for Gabriel isn’t lust!”

Hastur grinned in triumph, and Sandalphon slapped both hands over their mouth.

How could they have been so foolish? You never admitted what you were feeling to a demon! Especially when you were an archangel!

“’Course it isn’t, love. Now when did I ever say that?” Hastur’s tone was gentle, wistful, even. “Oh, you want to fuck him, sure you do. But it’s more than that, ain’t it? He’s there, and he’s himself, and he’s what you want. And that’s how it is. And that’s all the words there are for it.”

There was no use denying it, but they had to ask. “How—”

“How’d I know all that?” Hastur took another drag of her cigarette. “Maybe because I knew I had to have more self-control, not just around your lot, but around my side. So, I did.”

Demons didn’t know how to love. That was the biggest difference between them and angels—and the reason they could never return to being angels. The closest thing they had to it was lust, and it was rumored they practiced that on each other with both regular and disgusting abandon. That was what Dukes Hastur and Ligur had gotten up to for as long as Sandalphon had had the misfortune of knowing them. Or so Sandalphon had assumed. And if Hastur had been a strange and unsettling demon to look upon, then her partner had been the same. One never knew what he was thinking about behind those kaleidoscopic eyes, except that it couldn’t have been anything good—and was probably a great deal about the body hidden beneath Hastur’s tattered clothing. Naturally, when news of his demise had reached heaven, Sandalphon had reacted with horror. Not that they lamented the fact hell had one less demon to contend with, of course. But the way in which Ligur had— Well _died_ couldn’t cover it. Even a demon didn’t deserve that kind of oblivion. Not that a word like _oblivion_ could encompass it, either.

The look in Hastur’s bead-black eyes right now wasn’t one of lust at all. Not even a vague kind of disappointment that lust’s labors had been lost. There was something about it— something pale and—

_Pale. And fragile._ Though God only knew how.

Hastur looked out over the water again. “Don’t you think it’s odd,” she asked after a time, “how ‘no fraternizing’ didn’t mean just angels with demons? Oh, it happened. You know it as well as I do. Heaven, you even wanted to do it. But an ethereal still had to be quiet about it if they did. Her work and all. And his.” She pointed up, then down. “Can’t interfere with that, now can we? But then, one angel and one demon start fucking in secret and suddenly everything falls apart. And it’s all bullshit. Just like we all knew.”

She stared into the distance for a very long time.

“He killed my partner, you know.”

“Yes. I’m…” What was the appropriate thing to say when a demon told you an even worse demon had killed a third demon who was—well, apparently not just a colleague from work, or a ‘fuck buddy,’ as humans called it? “I’m terribly … I’m sorry.”

Hastur shrugged. Snorted. “No you’re not.” It was a growl, but not a menacing one. It had a chill like moonlight. She took another drag on her horrid cigarette and blew the smoke out. “You know,” she went on, “Ligur always said it would be a funny old world if demons started trusting each other. They were right, you know. But they always said it for a lark, to me. Because we knew the world_ was_ a funny old thing: Ours. Yours. Theirs.” She nodded at the humans wandering past, living their human lives without a thought for the very nonhuman beings just meters from them.

“Funny?” Sandalphon had never thought of anywhere as funny. Earth was confusing, hell was hell, and heaven—

Heaven was something they no longer understood.

“Funny,” Hastur said with a nod. “Funny ha-ha and funny _not_ ha-ha. Had no point, really, ’cept for him—and me, I s’ppose.

“Well.” Hastur nodded and sucked her chapped lip into her mouth. “Yeah. Well. And now he’s gone. And everywhere’s the same shitsack as ever, isn’t it? No meaning. Never has had.” But her voice was deeper now. Sandalphon wondered if she’d forgotten they were there.

No, she definitely had. Definitely.

“And fuck me, y’know? Just fuck me. Thinking it could be funny ha-ha.” She was silent for a long moment, her lips twisting like she wanted to say something.

“And what’s _Crowley_ done?” she asked just as Sandalphon began to wonder if they should leave. “Flash fucker._ Freak_. Whatever the fuck he is now. Killed him. _Destroyed _him. Not so much as a wince. Think he thinks about it at all? Oh no.” She waved the hand holding her cigarette in what Sandalphon guessed was the direction she thought Crowley now abided in. “No, he’s got his happy ending, hasn’t he? Got that bitchy little failure of an angel on that twiggy arm. Don’t even remember what he did to Ligur—or to me.” She snorted. “And he calls _me_ a monster.”

She seemed to have forgotten her cigarette now too.

“You want to know why … why me and Ligur, why we had a good laugh about trusting one another and such? It’s cuz we didn’t.” Again that head shaking. “No, wasn’t about _trust_. D’you know what I mean?”

Sandalphon didn’t, but somehow they did. Felt it in the way their body could feel sensations it shouldn’t. Felt it like it was something that was vaguely familiar.

They nodded. It was loss. And there was a lot about earth they didn’t understand—

But loss? No, loss was as clear as the light through heaven’s windows.

Apparently, everyone was well acquainted with it.

“So.” Hastur stubbed out her cigarette on the bench and wriggled it, grinding the hellish ash into the wood as if trying to stain it. When she turned her black eyes to Sandalphon, they held back a gasp.

There was that black-hole depth again. And its darkness was …

Not loss now. No, not loss at all.

“So,” Hastur repeated. “You wanna fuck?”

“I—what?” And just like that, all the feelings that had twisted inside them unspooled into shock.

“I said,” Hastur snapped. “Do. You. Want. To fuck? Or are you really expecting me to believe you don’t know what _that _means? That, what, you angels aren’t as randy as us? Well, who was it spread Nephilim all over the blessed globe then, hm, the incubi and succubae?  
  
“All right, then,” she went on when Sandalphon merely stared at her. “You need me to spell it out for you. You’re pining for your sweetheart—”

“He’s not my sweetheart.”

“Sure. And I’m out here being miserable about something I can’t have, sucking down cigarettes I don’t like, and staring at a park full of humans I like even less. So as I see it, we’ve both got a few options here. We keep sitting here being bloody miserable together, we have a go at those humans—”

“We are not doing that!” Sandalphon protested. “Only fifteen percent of them would warrant smiting—maybe,” they explained when Hastur raised her bushy eyebrows. “And they don’t let me do that en masse anymore.”

Though really, shoving their sword through a few sinners’ hearts right about now would’ve cheered them up greatly. Watching said sinners burn to ash? Even more so.

“Yeah, they don’t let me, either,” Hastur said. “Bullshit, isn’t it? Anyway, that’s not what we’re talking about.” She raised a gloved hand. “Our options: Sit here being bloody miserable”—she counted off on her thumb—“take it out on the humans, which we’ve just ruled out”—on her index finger this time—“though you’re right, Harp-fucker, that’d be for the best. Or”—she stretched out her middle finger and ran it along Sandalphon’s jawline. “We burn off some of that bloody misery by tupping each other stupid behind that dumpster over there.” She gestured over Sandalphon’s shoulder with the same finger, and when they turned to look in that direction, she flicked their ear with it.

“_Or_ we go our separate ways,” Sandalphon said when she looked at them expectantly.

“Oh, but we both know that ain’t going to happen, don’t we, love?” Hastur frowned at her spent, charred stub of a cigarette, then tossed it right into the path of the jogger who had just returned. “What?” she snapped when the human glared at her. “That’s the worst that happened to you this week, isn’t it? Now fuck off.” She growled at him for emphasis, snapping her teeth.

“Yeah, I get it,” she continued as the human scurried away, “I’m not exactly Archangel Blowjob, but no one gets what they want in life, do they?

Sandalphon supposed they didn’t.

“So,” Hastur said, scooting across the bench until she was inches away from them. “I only ever ask a thing three times: do you want to fuck, or do you want to go be a miserable bastard somewhere else?”

Lust wasn’t something an angel should indulge in. Oh, yes, they desired Gabriel’s body, but that was hardly it. More, they desired Gabriel’s love. His attention.

The way he smiled today when he spoke to that fiend.

Maybe it was a bit of envy after all.

Or maybe it was, as this other fiend had suggested, just despair.

“Yes,” they said, rising from the bench. “Yes, Hastur. I think I’d like a good fuck right about now.”

“_Duke_ Hastur to you,” Hastur growled as she stood. “Or Your Disgrace. Either one. Don’t care. But not Hastur.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

With a grunt, Hastur held out her hand. And though it felt like the signing of a Faustian contract, Sandalphon took it.

A rough, cocky smile flickered across Hastur’s face. “Yeah, all right, then.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where the porn starts. :)

The dumpster smelled exactly like hell—or like hell would have in Sandalphon’s imagination.

Which they’d never really had to use until that moment.

Well, except for when they wondered what sexual relations with Gabriel w—

“Bastard in the baby blue suit. You’re thinking about him, ain’t ya?”

Before Sandalphon could answer, Hastur slammed them back against the dumpster so hard that they felt the metal dent beneath their back.

She leaned in close—so close that her fetid breath curled around Sandalphon’s nostrils.

It smelled like hell too.

“Well, bastard in the suit ain’t here right now, is he?” Hastur asked as she wrapped a hand around Sandalphon’s neck. “So you really should concentrate on me, yeah? It’s only the polite thing to do, after all.”

She squeezed, and Sandalphon’s hand jerked up to grab her arm. They had no idea why. Ethereal beings didn’t need to breathe. Must’ve been the human body’s reaction.

“Well?” Hastur prompted. “And who’re you thinkin’ about now? Tell me.”

She squeezed harder. A fission of fear crackled through Sandalphon. One that felt surprisingly … exciting?

“No G-gabriel. No suit.”

“Hmm, right,” Hastur sneered as she released her hold on their neck. She ran her hand down Sandalphon’s chest and abdomen. “So, what’ve you got for me here, then?” she asked as she stopped at their belt buckle.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“What’ve you got for me to play with?” When Sandalphon only stared at her, she rolled her eyes. “Genitals, you daft _fuck_! What is it? A prick? A pussy? Both? Tentacles? Two dicks? What is it I’m gonna be doing here, exactly?” She yanked the buckle open, undid the button and zipper, and shoved her hand inside his underwear. “Fuck’s sake,” she snarled as she slapped the smooth mound of flesh between his thighs. “I am losing interest fast here, mate.”

“Oh.” They hadn’t really thought this through, had they?

What would they have done for Gabriel?

Throw him over the desk, tear off his trousers and briefs—oh, how they loved the way those briefs fit that firm backside—and then push into him so hard, Gabriel would scream and cry and moan—

Hastur smiled as Sandalphon that smooth mound sprouted out into a cock. Just like the ones they’d admired most in the pictures and films—three fingers thick and twenty-five centimeters long.

Was it shaped correctly? Oh, they hoped so, because the thought of Gabriel touching it made thinking difficult—particularly because Hastur was curling those long, warm fingers around it.

“Yeah, there we go,” she growled. “Fuck yeah, now _that_ I can work with!”

Sandalphon gave a displeased gasp as Hastur withdrew her hand from their trousers, dragging her short but ragged fingernails down their length along the way.

“Yeah, yeah, complaint noted,” she said as those same deft fingers went to work on Sandalphon’s belt buckle. In seconds, she had it open and Sandalphon’s trousers and underwear down around their ankles.

“N— We haven’t— We haven’t miracled up—”

“What’s wrong, hot stuff? Afraid one of those big, bad humans might come round and catch me blowing this nice cock of yours?”

Sandalphon gasped, then whimpered as she slapped it.

During their centuries-long study of pornography, Sandalphon had found the material difficult to approach from a purely academic perspective. They had, therefore, given their body the ability to feel sexual stimulation. Not just in any genitalia and secondary sex characteristics they chose to manifest, but in other areas. For example, when they had puzzled over why some humans enjoyed having their shoulders rubbed, they had made their own shoulders sensitive enough achieve the desired effect.

Of course, giving your body such abilities meant that you regularly had to … test them out.

And during one of those many tests, Sandalphon had discovered that they very much enjoyed slapping their cock. A fact it was demonstrating splendidly, and much to Hastur’s apparent delight.

“Good,” she murmured, giving it another little smack as she sank to her knees. “Now, you know how this goes, right?”

“Yes.” Much of the pornography they had studied, after all, involved a human taking another human’s genitals into their mouth. But little of it involved the way Hastur ran her tongue along each curve, up and down the shaft, up and down, before turning the tip of her tongue to its exposed head.

“Mh,” Hastur approved as she moved it in circles, and Sandalphon gasped when she jabbed the point right into the slit. She turned her beetle eyes up to his face, then winked as she did it again before wrapping her lips around the tip and sliding them forward.

And forward. And forward.

Sandalphon’s hands slammed against the rusted metal behind them as a cry of pleasure escaped from them.

“Shut it.” Hastur pulled her mouth away long enough to growl the command and to slap their cock again. “After all”—the grin that curled her lips was menacing indeed—“you wouldn’t want one of those nosy humans to hear us and come looking, would you? Because I don’t see that sword of yours anywhere, so no smiting today.”

The fact Sandalphon could call it up whenever they wished was beside the point. Because Hastur was fellating them so eagerly now, they had to bite their lip to keep from crying out. Those eyes were fixed upon them, pinning them in place, so Sandalphon shut their own eyes and sank into one of their favorite fantasies.  
  
_“You wanted to see me, sir?”_

_Gabriel looked up from his crouch over his desk as his face softened into a fond smile. One that, Sandalphon was convinced, had probably been the inspiration for the creation of earth’s sun. _

_“Sandalphon.” Just as that warm, equally fond tone had probably inspired milk and honey. _

_Gabriel strode across the room and clapped them on the back. Except, this time the gesture wasn’t one of professional kindness but emotional indifference. It wasn’t even platonic. No, it lingered like a kiss, then smoothed it way down to the small of his back before Gabriel pulled them into one._

_“Yes, I wanted to see you,” Gabriel murmured against their ear. “I want to see all of you.”_

_He unfastened Sandalphon’s belt and untucked their shirt. “Now this is what I like,” Gabriel murmured as he ran his hand along the overhang of their belly. “Sturdy. Stable. _Fierce_.” He growled the last word, and Sandalphon moaned as Gabriel squeezed his hip. “You’re a war machine, Sandalphon. A—what do they call it on earth? A … you know. One of those big rolley things that they use when they’re fighting?”_

_“Ah. A tank?” Sandalphon tried to sound helpful, but Gabriel was sliding his hand down from their stomach and onto their groin, which made being helpful the last thing on their mind at the moment._

_“Yes! A tank!” Gabriel gave them that sunshine smile again before trailing his fingers along the smooth mound there. “You’re, mh, a tank, Sandalphon. And I want you to roll all over me.”_

Well, all right. That part of the fantasy was more than a little silly. But the more Sandalphon learned about humanity, the more ridiculous a lot of Gabriel’s pronouncements sounded.

_Gabriel gently lead them to his desk and placed a strong hand on their shoulder. He pressed just firmly enough not to hurt, but to indicate what he wanted from his subordinate._

Beyond his eyelids, Hastur was bobbing her head along his length, pausing only to lick across the tip of his cock before diving back down.

It was distracting them further from a fantasy that had already derailed itself. So Sandalphon skipped ahead, to where Gabriel had them thrown over his desk.

This was where it diverged, depending on Sandalphon’s mood, or more often, what pornography they had partaken of most recently. Sometimes, Gabriel would bend over for them, arse held high and spread for Sandalphon’s cock; sometimes, he would lie there with his own legs spread, either with a pussy for Sandalphon to pound into, or a cock for Sandalphon to ride.

Today, they had Gabriel kneel between their legs to suck on them faster, and harder, and faster.

_“You’re so sexy, Sandalphon.”_

_“So perfect.”_

_“So strong and stable and loyal—” _

Why were Gabriel’s eyes black?

Concentrate. They needed to concentrate.

_Gabriel’s lip were soft, but firm, and so eager for them—_

And Sandalphon slammed their hands back against the dumpster a second time as they spilled into Gabriel—

No. Hastur.

Hastur’s chapped lips and callused hand, which had, at some point, started caressing the balls Sandalphon had also manifested. The rough palm fascinated Sandalphon, but they had little time to consider why; one more touch from it, and their hips shot forward as they erupted into Hastur’s mouth.

The pornography had no real consensus on what orgasms were like. Sometimes, it showed, or spoke of them, in the most perfunctory terms; at other times it depicted them as a kind of religious experience; still others depicted it as a temporary death.

But Sandalphon’s orgasm did not feel perfunctory, or like what they felt when they were at prayer; it did not feel at all like dying—though they could only claim a theoretical knowledge there.

If they had a word for this feeling of bandy-legged, silent calm, they might have called it—

Well. _Transport _seemed far too profound. But _relaxation_, not at all.

“Oi, Cloudfucker. You still inside there, or was I that good of a mouthfuck?”

Sandalphon’s eyes fluttered open on Hastur’s toothy grin.

“Ah, there they are. Good for you.” And that calloused hand left their groin and coiled around their right hand as Hastur stood.

Slender, fragile, delicate—

Warm. Not with hellfire but with something familiar. Perhaps like candle flame.

How could a demon’s hands feel like that?

Hastur let out a sigh that sounded as though it had traveled all the way up from hell before spilling from her mouth. “Oh, fuck me. Got to do everything myself,” she grumbled as she shoved their hand into her open trousers—

And past a scratch of lace into a pool of wetness.

“Yeah,” Hastur moaned as she curled their fingers over her mound. But it wasn’t plaster-smooth as Sandalphon’s had been—as it always was whenever they weren’t studying pornography. It was slick and deep, and it fluttered like the bubble in a frog’s throat.

It was even slicker inside, and so warm.

Hastur moaned as Sandalphon slid another finger up inside her heat. “Yeah, that’s it.” Her eyes were closed, her breath coming deep, sounding as hot as her pussy was getting; just as deep as it seemed.

“That’s it,” she insisted, rocking against their hand, and then against the third digit Sandalphon added. “Turn—turn’m just a bit to the left—your left now. And press it hard. Yeah.” Her voice was even huskier now as she bore down against his finger pads. “Flick my bean, love. That’s the—that’s my clit,” she informed them when their brow crinkled in confusion. “Find it and poke it, like it’s one of them—the thingies you hit on doors when you want—hahhhh.”

But Sandalphon hadn’t needed the description. They’d had to search through more pornography than they’d expected over the years to learn about this particular part of human anatomy. But when they had found the material they were looking for, they had diligently practiced administering to it.

They practiced the same diligence now as they pressed Hastur’s clit while rubbing it in tight, slow circles and pushing their fingers in and out of her warmth, in and out.

Hastur made a strangled sound as she threw her head back. “Yeah,” she stammered. “That’s it. Get me off, mate. Put another one up there.”

Sandalphon twisted their wrist and did just that, now pressing and circling Hastur’s clitoris with the pad of their thumb, feeling it harden into a pebble as Hastur threw her head back again and whimpered through a long release.

“Oh, that’s nice. That’s real nice. Yeah. Mh.”

Sandalphon smiled to themselves as they began moving their fingers again.

“Hey!” Hastur gasped, straightening up. “You—ohh. What’re you doin’ there, mate? Oh, what’re you doin’?”

“I’d think that would be obvious,” Sandalphon said with a chuckle as they speared those damp folds.

“Fuck,” Hastur hissed as she fell forward, grabbing Sandalphon’s shoulders. “Gonna get me to come again, handsome?”

Handsome? Well, that was new.

“Oh, I’m going to do much better than that.”

Hastur let out a high-pitched shriek as Sandalphon yanked her against them and crushed their lips against Hastur’s as they frigged her harder, faster, deeper.

Hastur’s mouth tasted like ash and rotting bog wood, and something like a charnel house.

Like the scent that had billowed through the land and drenched the skies and soil after Sandalphon had lain waste to five different cities.

Perhaps that was what they themselves tasted like, Sandalphon thought. Ash and sky and ruin. They wanted to find out. Wanted to taste more.

They pushed in harder, shoved their tongue deeper to taste more, and so did Hastur. Each twist and thrust of her tongue felt like another lap in a mortal chase until Sandalphon captured her.

By the time Hastur collapsed against them, Sandalphon had pushed her though two more hot, fast orgasms.

“Oh shit,” Hastur panted, still grinding against their fingers. “Oh shit, mate. Oh fuck. Oh blessed fucking _fuck_—”

“Fuck,” Sandalphon agreed before kissing her again. And again.

By the time Hastur had brought Sandalphon to their second orgasm, both of them had slumped to the asphalt, where they lay on their sides in a moaning, loose-limbed stupor.

At least, Sandalphon could only assume that was what Hastur felt, judging from the loose way she’d tucked her head into the crook of her elbow as she continued to swear her way through an entire lexicon.

When her cursing subsided to a trickle, then a few drops, then stopped, she flopped onto her back and reached into her mackintosh for a cigarette.

“Yeah,” she growled after blowing out a ring of smoke.

“Yes,” Sandalphon agreed. Then: “No,” as Hastur held out her cigarette and wriggled it at them. “I mean, no thank you,” they amended. “I don’t partake.”

“Well, I’d say that was a pity, but I won’t. More for me.”

“I thought you didn’t like them.

“I don’t. It’s a vice of mine.”

“But if you don’t like this vice, can’t you stop doing it?”

“You don’t always have to like them to do them.”

“Mh.” Sandalphon hadn’t the mental acuity for this discussion at the moment.

Beyond the dumpster, traffic trundled past in that vague, soundless roar it had that reminded Sandalphon of heaven’s busier, more populated floors. That and Hastur’s slow, satisfied puffing were the only things that disturbed their reverie.”

“That was far more intense than the pornography.” When Hastur snorted, Sandalphon covered their mouth again.

_Why do I keep saying Gabriel things?_

“You’re a laugh, you know that?” Hastur pressed the cigarette stub into the ground and rolled up to her feet. Adjusting her wig with her right hand, she offered Sandalphon her left.

Which they took, despite being perfectly capable of getting off the ground. When they both let go, both their hand and Sandalphon’s shimmered with the duke’s come.

“Well,” Hastur said as Sandalphon miracled it from their own hand. “How d’you like that, hm?” She hesitated, for no reason Sandalphon could discern, then vanished the mess on her glove with a twitch of her fingers.

“Not in the mood to lick it up,” she explained, as though Sandalphon had been wondering.

“Mh, yes. I see.” Sandalphon fumbled for the word just as they fumbled to pull up their underwear and trousers. But though they were able to lock their belt back into place on the second try, a first, a second, a third, and a fourth attempt to speak yielded no words save for: “That was. That was—very good.”

“Right,” Hastur drawled, turning those fathomless eyes back to Sandalphon. For a moment something moved in them that Sandalphon couldn’t describe. “Got yourself off thinking about Hand-fuck Harp, yeah?”

“I—” Sandalphon’s protest died in their throat as they realized that quite the opposite was true.

“That’s it’s all right, then” Hastur murmured. “I’m thinking of someone else too. That’s part of the point of this whole thing, innit?”

If Sandalphon had had a proper human body, they were sure those words would have made something inside it pinch.

But, oh, those words made sense. This was where they had to leave, wasn’t it? It was the most regular of pornographic encounters, really: parting as though nothing had happened.

And nothing _had_ happened here. So why did they feel so—

“Well,” Sandalphon said, trying to sound brave and angelic. Like they knew what they were doing. “Well, thank you, Hastur. That was—”

“_Duke_ Hastur,” she grumbled. “You got anywhere to be today, Nimbus-Nuts?”

Well, they really ought to get back to heaven soon. They had duties to attend to, paperwork to finish.

And Gabriel would worry.

Wouldn’t he?

“No, not really.” The words made it out before Sandalphon could chastise themselves for thinking up each traitorous syllable.

“Yeah, me neither,” Hastur said, tugging at her wig again. “Boss said I’m not allowed back ’til I’ve done some _proper corrupting_.” She emphasized the words with a gesture that Sandalphon was pretty sure had the name _air quotes_. “Apparently, all my _brooding about_”—that gesture again—“is _lowering morale_”—and again. Hastur snorted and spat a glob of something foul on the dirty asphalt.

“Not like her and your boss makin’ the beast with two backs might have anything to do with it, oh no. It’s all blessed _Hastur’s_ fault for darin’ not to be a fucking ray of darkness every fucking second of every fucking day. ‘You’re zzzetting a terrible exzzzzzample for your zzzzubbbordinatezzzzzz, Hazzzzztur.’” Her impersonation of Beelzebub was somehow both ridiculously exaggerated and perfectly on point. “Fuck off! I didn’t Fall to be their nanny.”

For the second time that day, Sandalphon wondered if she’d forgotten they were there.

Hastur spat again. “You know,” she said, looking right at Sandalphon. “I’d be fine with it, if it wasn’t for the complete fuckin’ lack of craftsmanship. Scolding me while she’s fucking the leader of the opposition behind everyone’s back? Now that’s what I’d expect from the prince of hell. Having a go at me right after she gets off the phone with your sweetheart? Well, now. That’s just insulting!”

“He isn’t—he’s not my sweetheart,” Sandalphon protested as their face heated. Damn it. They’d given themselves the ability to blush several centuries ago and kept forgetting to uninstall it.

“Yeah, sure.” Hastur shrugged and brushed the shoulder of her jacket, as if ridding it of some dirt—though why she’d bother to do that, Sandalphon couldn’t say. “You’ve got some grit here. From the parking lot.” She stepped toward them and brushed her hand down Sandalphon’s side before they realized what was happening.

“Sorry?”

“Just let me—”

“No, I’ve got—”

Their hands brushed as they both tried to sweep said grit away.

They both froze; Sandalphon was the first to step back.

“I could’ve just miracled it,” they explained.

Hastur shrugged. “Just tryin’ to be nice.” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her mackintosh. “So. You and me. Saying fuckall to work. How ’bout a cuppa, then?”

“A cuppa?” Sandalphon could still feel the brush of those slender fingers. “Oh. Yes, of course. Yes. Thank you. I would be delighted.”

Hastur snorted. “‘Delighted,’ they say. Like you really would be, if your boyfriend had those ten thousand eyes, all of ’em for you.” She grabbed Sandalphon’s wrist and tugged as she walked away. “Come on, then. I know a place.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slight mention of scars in this chapter, and allusions to self-injury. It's slight, but it's there, and it will be discussed in later chapters.

Sandalphon had visited coffeehouses before. More than a few times, in fact. Gabriel had wanted to know why humans—and field agents like Aziraphale, cursed be his name—consumed gross matter. Weren’t things like the music of the spheres, the humming of electromagnetic fields, and the ether of divine love enough for any angel who wanted a treat?

Sandalphon had wondered this too. And one day, to satisfy Gabriel’s curiosity, they had exited heaven by its main entrance and walked to the first eating establishment they’d found.

“Star … bucks.” Sandalphon had shrugged at the name as they pulled open the door. But humans couldn’t consume the electromagnetic fields of distant suns. So why would they name an establishment for eating matter “star” anything? Let alone follow it with whatever “bucks” was?

As they entered the place, an aroma had swirled around them that was nothing like suns or the engines that drove them. It was both strange and delightful and had curled up inside them and had never left.

After determining what kind of matter gave off the smell—with the help of a few bewildered-looking humans—Sandalphon had ordered and consumed three cups of the matter, which they had learned was called a “venti mocha.” For some reason, a few humans then wondered why Sandalphon wasn’t “climbing the walls.” Not that an angel couldn’t, of course, but doing so in front of humans would definitely not keep them from screaming, that was for sure.

“But of course I won’t climb the walls,” they had informed the humans jovially. “No human could do that, and we’re all humans here!”

No one had returned their convivial laughter. And when they had ordered a fourth venti mocha, the humans had suddenly become interested in other things, such as moving away from them slowly.

Humans were flighty things—interested in something one moment, disinterested the next.

But focus enough holy fire on them and they had no ambivalence about combusting.

Interestingly, the Starbucks seemed to be following them. Whenever they returned to earth to bring back information from another part of London, it was right there. Oh, sometimes it looked different—a bit larger, a bit smaller, different drinks on the menu, different foods for sale—but it was still a Starbucks nonetheless. Indeed, the establishment even followed them on the rare occasion they attended to business outside this part of Europe.

They’d found it both intriguing and a little unnerving—two emotions they rather enjoyed.

Today, they ordered a venti mocha again as Hastur perused the list of drinks located behind the counter.

“Thirty espresso shots. Heavy on caramel. As much whipped cream as you can fit.”

The human behind the counter stared at Hastur as if they hadn’t heard her correctly. “Sorry, sir, I—”

“Ma’am,” Hastur rumbled.

“Ma’am, yes. Sorry. I just want to make sure I’m understanding. Thirty shots?”

“And caramel. And whipped cream.”

“That’s a lot of caffeine.”

“A lot of caffeine,” Hastur deadpanned. The corners of her mouth twitched.

The laughter burst from her in a high-pitched gasp and shook her body into angles. Like shards of glass might look if they began laughing.

Only the sounds that came out of her mouth were like bubbles being popped by those same shards.

“A lot of caffeine,” she repeated, fixing her pupil-less black eyes on the human. And a gale of laughter doubled her over as she pounded a palm against the counter.

The sounds curled up inside Sandalphon in a place right next to the scent of the mocha.

How had they ever imagined that demons didn’t laugh?

The human’s body twitched with laughter as well—but it sounded as uncertain as it was forced. And just like that, Hastur’s own laughter cut off and she raised her head to meet the human’s gaze.

“Make that thirty-one shots.”

She yanked several mildewing pound notes from a pocket and slapped them down inches from the human’s hand.

“Have a nice day.” Her smile had just a hint of teeth, and maybe, just for a moment, something bright and squirmy. The human swallowed and turned away quickly, without even touching the money.

“Well,” Sandalphon managed as they took their beverages from another part of the counter a few minutes later. “That’s always interesting, I think. Ordering this matter and drinking it.” They smiled pleasantly at the humans behind the counter, who suddenly became very interested in attending to the drink machines or otherwise looking into the distance.

“They always do that,” Sandalphon said as their smile faltered.

“Don’t know a good thing when they see it,” Hastur agreed with a snort.

“Well. Would you mind outside, Hastur? It’s a lovely day.” They gestured toward the establishment’s front window, through which sunlight poured.

Hastur snorted. “_Duke_ Hastur. And I prefer hailstorms. All those people rushing about getting hit by the weather. But yeah, sure. They get all tetchy in here if I want to have a smoke. Something about their lungs and allergies and what not. Fuck knows why. Little meatbags are practically born dying. Heaven’s sake, they’re killing themselves as fast as they can on this shithole planet. What’s a few months more or less?” But she let Sandalphon lead the way.

When they reached the door, however, Hastur stopped them with a hand on their shoulder. She turned back to the counter, where the humans were now watching them both. With a smirk, she raised the large cup to them then tipped it to her lips.

And drank.

And drank.

And drank.

And drank.

Her jaw hinged back into place a second before she lowered the large paper cup. With a wink and a little wave, she crushed it like an eggshell in her hand.

Sandalphon didn’t understand why the humans’ horrified expressions made them want to laugh.

“All right,” Hastur said, tossing the empty cup toward the bin. It bounced off the rim and landed on the floor. She opened the door and strode into the sunlight.

Sandalphon considered picking up the cup, but only for a moment.

As soon as they stepped outside, Hastur yanked a cigarette from a pocket inside her trench coat and lit the tip with a touch.

“Ah, yeah,” she sighed as mundungus coiled from her mouth. It smelled like bog rot and lichens and the underbellies of things.

Sandalphon tucked that away inside them too; right where they put the scent of coffee.

“Right, then.” Hastur yanked out one of the spindly, nondescript café chairs and plopped down into it, legs splayed, one stretched out as if she wanted to retrieve something from the ground but was too tired to reach for it with a hand.

“Looks like your work here’s done for now. You caught me doing my evil deed for the day: waving at humans while aggressively drinking espresso.” Her voice was a low, ringing laugh, like metal might sound like when being supercharged. “Not to mention the littering.” She took a long inhale on her cigarette and puffed out a smoke ring.

“Mh, yes,” Sandalphon agreed as they watched the ring. “I’ll be certain to write a full report.” They raised the venti mocha to their lips and sipped.

“Mhhh.” Their eyes fluttered closed. So wonderful.

When Sandalphon opened them, Hastur’s inscrutable, inky eyes were staring right at her.

“You know, there’s something…” She tapped her finger against the table as she took another suck on the cigarette. “Something about you,” she continued after she’d puffed away the smoke. “It’s not that I don’t know who you are Upstairs, or what you do for Gabriel, but no. It’s something … somewhere I saw you.” She tapped her fingers again, drumming them as she smoked in silence.

Sandalphon wasn’t sure how to answer this, but they didn’t have to, because Hastur then banged her palm against the table so hard that it rattled, and drew the attention of a few humans. “Right! That’s it. Sodom and Gomorrah! Razing two cities, and burning some bitch or another down to salt.” She grinned. “Yeah, good piece of work there. Loved the way the whole thing just—kind of collapsed in on itself while it burnt.” She clapped her hands together loudly and wriggled her fingers in excitement. “Great work with the flames too. Why me and Lig—” She took a breath. Swallowed. Hesitated. “Well, you get the picture. We watched for hours. Roasted some of the survivors on it. Made us late to our next temptation, I can tell you.”

Sandalphon couldn’t help but be surprised. They’d done a lot of smiting and razing over the years, but no one had really paid attention—not like this. Not in such _detail_. Oh, of course Gabriel had thanked them. Gabriel thanked everyone for their work, from his fellow archangels right on down to the lowest putti. Which was what made it seem so route, so impersonal.

Angels didn’t forget very much, but they remembered some things much better than others

Sandalphon, for example, remembered that Sodom and Gomorrah postmortem—heh—even better than the actual smiting of Sodom and Gomorrah.

***

“All right, thank you for that update, Uriel. Looks like we’re not going to be able to spare Admah and Zeboiim after all.” Gabriel frowned. “Too bad. I really hoped it wouldn’t come to that, and I know you did too, but well”—he shrugged—“that’s what Metatron’s told us, so it’s really above our paygrade.”

Gabriel clapped his hands together and turned his attention to Sandalphon. His face turned up into a friendly smile. “Well, everyone, I’ve saved the best thing for last here. Let’s all give a round of applause to Sandalphon, our MVP!”

Michael and Uriel politely clapped, Uriel being stony-faced as always, and Michael with just the smallest smile and nod of approval.

“Good job, Sandalphon.” Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. “You’re a real asset to Team Number One. All right, team.” And just like that, the hand was gone, and with it the beginnings of Sandalphon’s smile. “Looks like it’s time to get ready for another _smiting_! But first”—he flashed a grin at them—“have _I _got a treat for_ you_! The Virtues have been busy making something special.”

Sandalphon’s smile tentatively reemerged. “A new flaming sword?”

It wasn’t that Sandalphon wanted to be rewarded for every deed—or really, even _any_ deed. The poster in Gabriel’s office had it right: _Serving the Lord is Its Own Reward!_ But that didn’t mean he didn’t daydream about wielding a new weapon. Maybe a slightly longer sword this time—really, just a few hand lengths—in case you needed to stab it through a human and the human behind them, to let them know you really meant it about this whole smiting business. Or perhaps one that could be broken in two. He’d always wanted to dual-wield a weapon.

It could even be the exact same sword, really. If it only ignited properly—without needing a good shake, or a singing to. Because if he had to croon an alleluia at it to get it rebooted one more time—

Gabriel’s smile widened, and Sandalphon couldn’t help but squirm in anticipation.

_Please oh please, Lord. Let it not need a good singing to._

“Oh it’s even better than a flaming sword, Sandalphon!” Gabriel grinned at him as if to prolong the suspense. “It’s a flaming _bush_!” The words rushed out as though he’d just announced a company party.

Sandalphon’s smile wavered. “Um, I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard that correctly.”

“I know!” Gabriel laughed, grabbing their hand. “That’s what I said too when they told me,” he went on, practically tugging them along. “What will they think of next, right?”

The bush was all right, Sandalphon supposed, now that they thought back on it. But a new sword would’ve been a lot nicer. And nicer still? Gabriel giving him an actual thank-you, not the same memorized patter he gave everyone.

Not _everyone_ could be the MVP, after all.

***

“Twenty pounds for your thoughts.”

Sandalphon blinked away the memory. “I’m sorry.”

“You were continents away there. So I’d not be giving you just a penny, now would I?” Hastur regarded him with a crooked smirk. “The boyfriend again?”

Sandalphon fought down a beleaguered sigh. “He’s not—”

“Uh-huh. So you’ve said.”

“If you must know, I was reminiscing,” Sandalphon informed her before taking a hearty sip of their mocha.

“About those cities? And the rest you smote around that time? I can see why.” Hastur tapped some ash out onto the table. “It was real fun to watch. Must’ve been even more fun to actually do.”

Sandalphon’s nostrils flared. 

“Oh come on. You didn’t enjoy burning a few thousand sinners? Sounds like my idea of a good time.”

“It wasn’t _fun_,” Sandalphon snapped. “It was _necessary_.”

“So’s damnation. Oh, you’ve got this little—” Hastur reached across the table and swiped her finger across the corner of Sandalphon’s mouth. She held it up to show the glistening sepia drop of coffee before drawing the finger to her mouth and licking it away.

She had no right to do that, Sandalphon decided. Not in the middle of a serious conversation.

“That isn’t the same thing,” they pressed on.

“Oh yeah? Then where d’you think all those smote people go when you’re done frying ’em? The moon?”

Sandalphon merely harrumphed at her triumphant grin. There really was no need to concede the point, now was there?

“Well, you don’t need to hurry their damnation along,” they said before taking a thoroughly sullen sip of the mocha. “That isn’t the point of the work I do.”

“And what would that be, now?”

“We hold out for them,” Sandalphon explained. “As long as possible. ’Til the last second, if that’s what it takes. And then, when they don’t listen—”

“They send in you.”

“That’s right. And then it’s just too late for them.”

“So you don’t enjoy your job, then? Because the way you’re grinning like a jack-o’-lantern now kind of says otherwise.”

“It’s not a question of ‘enjoyment.’ But … yes. I do take satisfaction. At knowing my place.”

Hastur nodded thoughtfully and nursed her cigarette.

“Yeah, I’d enjoy that job. Kind of have that job—well, the ‘have’ part’s a bit … past, I suppose.” She waved the concern away with a brush of her hand. “Anyway, I’m on ‘administrative leave’”— those air quotes again—“which we all know is just an unusually polite way of saying ‘you’ve been sacked.’ Meanwhile, you’re having a mope about your boyfr—”

Sandalphon felt as though the furnace inside them had suddenly ignited. They leaned in across the table, their mouth opening in a fierce smile. “Unless you want to be discorporated, I suggest you not finish that sentence. And I suggest you stop using it altogether, because I am still not of a mood to put up with your antics.”

Hastur tilted their head and looked them over, as if trying to gage whether they were truly serious. After her gaze had butted up against Sandalphon’s unwavering glare for a few moments, she shrugged.

“Okay, mate. Okay. No smiting me, now, yeah? We both know what the paperwork looks like. I was just having a laugh—”

“Well, it isn’t funny.” Sandalphon’s voice was hot iron now.

Burning like the sword their fingers itched to call up.

“No,” Hastur said, surprising them. “No, I guess it’s not.” She huffed out a sigh and ran her hand through her starchy hair. “As you can probably tell, I’m not in the best way right now.” She stubbed her cigarette out on the table. “Ligur always said my sense of humor was lacking.” She snorted. “Course, his was much worse.”

She stared into the distance. And once again, Sandalphon wondered if she’d forgotten they were there. If they should just take their mocha and walk away from this … whatever this fucking mess was.

Sandalphon had never had any trouble with long silences. Most archangels didn’t—well, except for Gabriel, but that was to be expected from an angel who had served as a herald, wasn’t it? But this silence was becoming unnerving. Whenever Hastur fell into it, they felt as though a black hole had somehow devoured her.

It made them want to shatter her reverie.

“You know, I get quite tired of being ignored.”

They hadn’t expected to shatter it quite that way, however. But now that the words were out, Sandalphon’s temper was burning even hotter.

“What?” Hastur’s tone clearly showed they hadn’t heard a damn bit of what they’d said. The flames surged higher, and Sandalphon thought of throwing their drink in the duke’s face.

“I don’t,” they repeated instead, “like being _ignored_. If all you’re going to do is talk about yourself to the air, fine. My misery needs no company.”

“_Your_ misery?” Hastur snorted. “Just because one sodding archangel has bad taste in who he fucks doesn’t make you miserable, Sandalphon. It makes you just like everyone else in any realm: fucking unlucky. Don’t think you can compare that to what I’m—”

Sandalphon tore the lid off their drink and hurled the mocha in Hastur’s face.

“Go back to hell, Hastur,” they said as they stood, nearly tipping the chair onto its side. “If I want to be disregarded, I’ll just stand outside Gabriel’s office and _wait_!”

The human chatter around them had stopped, as if someone had slammed a door on it. Curious, frightened eyes peered at him from other tables.

No one in this crowd was in need of a smiting. But Sandalphon wanted to draw his sword and burn them all down nonetheless.

Just burn them down to ash.

“What?” they roared instead. “Stop staring at me!”

“Sandalphon—”

But Sandalphon didn’t look back as they stormed away.

They did, however, throw a rude gesture up over their shoulder—one they had never used before, and never should have used.

“Fuck her anyway,” Sandalphon seethed, ignoring Hastur as she shouted their name again. “Fuck—_her_.”

What had they been thinking? Talking to a duke of hell about such confidential—such _compromising_ things?

_What was I thinking_ fucking_ a duke of hell?_

Sandalphon turned the corner of the high retaining wall marking the beginning of a hill, and ploughed right into something long, narrow, and hard. It shoved them back with equal force, and Sandalphon grabbed at the edge of the wall to keep from falling back onto their arse.

“Don’t you,” Hastur seethed, grabbing Sandalphon’s lapels and yanking her forward. Sandalphon’s stomach slammed into her, but she didn’t even judder. “Don’t you _ever _walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”

There was hellfire in her eyes and in her voice.

Sandalphon showed her that they feared neither as they raised their hands and brought them down on her upper arms, forcing her to release her grip.

“And don’t you ignore me when I’m talking to you,” they snapped.

“Oh, come _off _it,” Hastur rolled her head in a half-circle of frustration. “I wasn’t the one sitting there with my hand half-down my trousers thinking about a dimwit archangel that’s been using me as some glorified butler for how many years?”

“Apologize.” Sandalphon’s voice was a whisper. The backdraft before the furnace blew.

“Why? For telling you what you’ve known ever since you first started rustling down there for him?” Hastur cackled. “Oh, you are bloody_ thick_, aren’t you?”

“Apologize!” The backdraft hit as Sandalphon summoned their sword. Flames swirled and roared around the claymore, blue and hot and righteous, as only an archangel’s holy fire could be.

It shimmered in Hastur’s eyes as she stared at it with something like bemused curiosity.

And then that broken-glass cackle tore from her lips again, twisting her maw into a parody of amusement.

“What? Is that what you want to do?” She spread her arms wide. “_Is that what you want to do?_”

Sandalphon remained where they stood.

“Go on, then!” Hastur cackled again as she pounded her palms against her chest. “At least I can say I got something that I wanted in this bastard of a world! What can you say, huh? _What can you _say?” they roared when Sandalphon didn’t respond.

They stared into each other’s eyes as Sandalphon’s heart thrummed and Hastur’s lips twisted.

_She isn’t the problem here._

That thunderstone of a thought stopped the heart they didn’t have midbeat.

_The problem is I’m angry._

The beat started up again, slower now. They could feel the shape of that anger, and its shape was a sunshine smile and a hand that would never touch them.

_I’m angry. So angry._

And this time, neither sin nor humanity were to blame.

Slowly, slowly, the thrumming in their chest lowered to a patter, just as Hastur’s snarl lowered into a grimace.

They both stood there in silence.

Sandalphon willed their sword back to its resting place.

“Now why,” Hastur murmured, “why would a smiting angel like you go and do a thing like that, huh?”

Sandalphon had no words for the tone in which she spoke, except that it sounded like a razor’s edge.

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Well, can you be honest about something else, then?”

“I suppose.”

“Was it my eyes?”

Sandalphon raised their eyebrows. “I’m—what?”

“That kept you from running me through like one of them shiska-something or others? Was it my eyes? My sparkling sense of humor? The fact you need to know why I just ordered a drink that could knock a lower-class demon out on their arse?”

If that was her best attempt at sparkling humor, Sandalphon was certainly not twinkling back. “If you must know,” they grumbled, “it’s because I really didn’t want to smite you.”

“Hm, yeah? All that blessed paperwork?”

“It’s because you’re not the one at fault here.” Sandalphon looked to the side.

“Yeah. I know.” That razor’s edge had dulled now. “Neither are you. It’s just that there’s nothing—”

“—just that there’s nothing to be angry at, is there? Nothing you can look at and say, ‘This is what needs to be destroyed. And once that’s gone, it’ll all be over.’” Sandalphon shut their eyes and sighed. “Just please don’t ignore me like that again. If you don’t want to talk, to me, I can handle silence.”

_It’s his empty words I can’t stand._

“Yeah. All right, then. But no more woolgatherin’ for you, either. Neither of the ones we want to talk to is here right now, so we’ve only got each other.”

Sandalphon sniffed. “More’s the pity, that.”

Hastur snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, more’s the pity.”

They began walking.

The silence followed them for five kilometers.

“Hastur—”

“_Duke_ Hastur, bless it. How many times—”

“I’m sorry.”

They met each other’s eyes in unison.

“Well, how ’bout that? An archangel apologizing to a duke of hell,” Hastur said with a half-smile.

“Yes, indeed.”

“What’s next, I wonder? The dog lyin’ down with the lamb?”

“You’re thinking of a lion, not a dog.” Sandalphon frowned. “I think.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“No, I suppose not.”

The silence followed in their wake for a few more meters.

“I’m sorry too.”

Sandalphon chuckled. “Well, how ’bout that? A duke of hell apologizing to an archangel.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s next, I wonder?”

“Dunno. Maybe lions and cats gettin’ it on together?”

“You mean getting on.” Another frown. “But I’m not sure about that one.”

Their fingers brushed as they stopped at a crosswalk.

When they reached the other side, their fingers slid from each other’s hold, as if hoping neither of their owners had noticed what they’d been up to.

Now this was a silence Sandalphon patently did _not_ like.

“So why _did_ your drink upset the humans?” was the first way to break it that came to mind.

“Mh?” Hastur’s gaze turned back to them. The shine in their black eyes was back, thank the Lord.

“When you said, um, thirty-one shots. Of that espresso, was it? They seemed upset and confused.”

Hastur’s chapped lips parted. “Well, a shot is—”

“Yes, I know. I’ve tried this espresso.” Sandalphon winced. “Not at all an enjoyable form of matter to drink.”

“Oh. Well, it’s a joke, you see. One that’s actually funny.” When Sandalphon merely stared at her, Hastur snorted. “Okay, well, they think I’m human, and drinking that many shots typically kills humans. So, when I get it, they’re terrified because they think one sip and I’ll keel over. But I never do. And what, just_ what_, can that mean? they think.

“So, I give ’em a smile.” Hastur glanced over at Sandalphon with a smirk that could only be described as puckish. “I wink.” She demonstrated. “Then I down the rest of it, give a thumbs-up”—and demonstrated again—“then it’s off down the sidewalk, across the road. What have you. Like I never did exist and they just dreamt it all.”

“But why?”

“Reckon it’s a good story they can tell their mates, yeah? One of those city-legend type things. Keeps people wondering.” Hastur dragged her teeth over her lip. “Started doing it so I could keep lurking up from hell every day and keep lurking through the city, lurking through the deeds I was assigned. Just, lurking so I wouldn’t _think._ Because one think, and I’d _couldn’t_. You understand?”

Sandalphon nodded. “Yes. I think I do. I suspect I’ve done the same quite a bit lately. I mean,” they amended, “not lurking per se.”

“Keeps you going, don’t it?” Hastur shrugged. “Well, kept me going for _a while_, anyway.”

She raised her right hand to her lips and parted them as she drew her index finger toward her mouth. Her black eyes had a small white pupil in each, a white-dwarf star that somehow defied the hunger of space. These shifted to Sandalphon, who stood at her right, as if calling her out on something, and Hastur lowered her hand back to her side

As she did, something on her index finger shimmered.

Hastur’s tattered gloves reached only up to the middle of her fingers. It had only been for a second, but the sunlight caught a ripple of pink that stretched from one tattered finger hole to the apex of the digit it only half-covered.

_Maggots._ Hastur, after all, was famous for them.

But the lines didn’t wriggle, and they were far too striated and shiny to be—

Why was her finger scarred like that? Demons weren’t supposed to scar. Unless, of course, she had sustained an injury during the Fall.

Hastur turned her head toward them and raised her eyebrows.

“Anyway,” she went on, “that’s been my deeds of the day this last week. Scaring humans in coffee shops and givin’ the tourists complicated directions that take them about as far away from where they want to go as possible. Yeah, I’m a regular first-class demon, these days.”

“Well, I think it’s perfectly wicked,” Sandalphon said honestly.

“Oh, do you now?”

“Yes, of course! Tourist season’s always going on somewhere on earth, so every branch of heaven has at least a month or so when they’re inundated with prayers about how to find this, that, or the other. It clogs everything up for weeks. And then there are the field reports of humans behaving badly after getting the wrong directions. Why, the sincerely meant blasphemies alone—” They shivered. “We always suspected demonic activity was behind it. Now that we know, I really should thank you.”

Hastur rolled her eyes. “Oh, come off it, mate. Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Not at all.” When Hastur raised her eyebrows, Sandalphon amended, “All right. Maybe just a little.”

And Hastur threw back her head laughing. Only this time, it didn’t sound like broken glass, nor like that broken glass was sticking into her.

It was like sunlight. Not the glaring form he was used to, but real sunlight as it peered over the horizon. As warm as the flames inside a stand of votives.

How was it that they had wanted to kill her only around an hour ago?

Because their anger hadn’t been about her.

Other things, however, were very much about her.

Like the way she’d stopped walking right as they did.

“You want another go, don’t you?” She turned to them, her nostrils flaring as she took in a loud breath. “Oh, of course you do. I mean, I’m no lust demon, but it doesn’t take a lust demon to know desire when they smell it. And, you know, thirty-one shorts of espresso can’t kill a duke like me, but it sure as heaven makes me horny as fuckall.”

It took Sandalphon a moment to remember that “horny” had more than one meaning.

“So,” Hastur drawled, running that scarred index finger along Sandalphon’s lower lip, encouraging it to open. “You wanna fuck?”

They shouldn’t have. One tryst with this demon was bad enough, but excusable. Even an archangel couldn’t be perfect, no matter how earnest their quest for perfection.

But a second time? No, that was merely asking for trouble. That came dangerously close to a temptation fulfilled.

“I’d really rather not have another go against that dumpster,” Sandalphon conceded.

“Nah,” Hastur insisted, “I’m more adventurous than that. I get the feeling you might be, too, when you get down to it.”

“Adventurous?” And Hastur gasped as Sandalphon sucked her fingertip into their mouth and ran their tongue along it. “Not at all,” they said, withdrawing. “In fact, I’ve never heard of the word.”

“Well, no time like the present to learn.” Hastur took their wrist. “Let’s go somewhere private this time. Almost cozy. You like cozy, love?”

“Well, I suppose I could try anything once.”

“Good.”

And was it their imagination, or did Hastur grip their wrist a bit harder this time as she pulled them along behind her? 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is so much sex in this chapter, y'all.

The public swimming pool had been closed for five years, according to the sign on the rusted chain-link fence that pronounced it condemned and warned that trespassers would be prosecuted. The pool inside had long ago been drained, though something green and sludgy sat at the bottom and spiked up the crumbling blue-tiled walls. The area around it was littered with the brown corpses of leaves, cigarette butts, the mangled skeletons of pool furniture, and soggy paper that had once, in another life, been fliers of some sort.

A dilapidated building marked as _Changing Rooms_ sat off to the right, sinking under its own weight. Colorful graffiti covered its walls in equally colorful language.

“Why do humans have to be so crude?” Sandalphon asked themselves.

“Dunno. Because it’s fun, I suppose,” Hastur said as her right hand lit up with hellfire. She touched it to the padlock on the gate. “Oh, relax, you sook,” she grumbled when Sandalphon took an anxious step backward. But those black eyes looked … pained. And oh.

Oh dear.

“I’m sorry. It was just a—I think the term is _reflex_?” Sandalphon tried. “I nearly saw what it could do, you see.”

“Yeah.” Hastur glowered. “Wouldn’t know fuckall about it, now would I?”

“No.” Sandalphon cringed as Hastur’s frown turned into a sneer and gimleted eyes. “No,” they tried in a more apologetic tone. “I mean. Well. I didn’t, you see. I _didn’t_ mean.”

Fuck.

Sandalphon stepped closer and put their hand on her shoulder.

“I was careless.”

Hastur flinched, then nodded as she went back to work. She seemed as though—

As though she struggled as much as Sandalphon did to understand this strange concept of touch. Or why either of them felt the compulsion to do it.

What was the word for it?

_Ostracized._

They wondered if she’d ever felt like that.

“Yeah,” she grumbled, “don’t worry about it.”

The lock and the chain-link around it melted, and she yanked the mess of iron away and discarded it in a smoldering black heap on the dead grass.

“Why they keep replacin’ it, I’ll never know,” Hastur said as she straightened up. “Well, angelic arseholes first,” she said as she kicked open the gate, then mock bowed low.

“Oh, not at all.” Sandalphon bowed back. “Dastardly, um, demons first, I insist.”

Hastur rolled her eyes. “We’ve got to work on your insults, mate,” she chided as she walked through the open gate. “You coming?” she called over her shoulder, and Sandalphon realized they’d been lost in the sway of her hips as her footsteps sloshed across the detritus.

Not even her bulky mackintosh could conceal the way they shook with each step. So sleek and bony.

“I’m definitely coming,” Sandalphon agreed, earning a snort from Hastur.

“Oh, you better believe you’ll be.”

Sandalphon’s face heated as they followed her to the changing rooms, careful not to slip on any of the rotting mush on the concrete. When she got there, Hastur burned the lock away, then yanked the leftmost of the two doors open and beckoned them inside.

If the dumpster had smelled like hell, this fetid shack smelled much worse, like stale water and things that grew in the darkness. Sandalphon had no names for the noisome bouquet save for _rot_. Paint-worn, dented lockers lined the walls, their doors either shut firmly or rusting off their hinges. Two narrow benches partitioned the room into unequal thirds. Near the wall beneath a small frosted-glass window—the only one in the room—lay a few tattered gym mats.

“Why are we here?” Sandalphon asked as Hastur untied the belt of her mackintosh.

That was definitely mold creeping across those mats.

“What, you were expectin’ something posh? With me?” Hastur grinned over her shoulder as she shucked her jacket to the floor. The shirt beneath was just as filthy; Sandalphon couldn’t begin to tell if it had ever been the crisp white its cleaner patches claimed it had been.

“But why here of all places?” Sandalphon asked as Hastur propped a foot up on one of the benches.

Her fingers stopped halfway through opening the buckle on her scuffed boot. “I see what you’re askin’. No, him and me, we never fucked here. Those places aren’t— I mean, that’s obvious not on the menu, right? Nah, I just come here sometimes. To have a think. A smoke.”

“Yes, I see.”

_With your other lovers._

That thought shouldn’t have bothered them at all.

“Yeah. It’s quiet. It’s what I’m used to.” Hastur dropped her boot to the floor and started on the next. “You going to get your kit off or just stand there contemplating—whatever it is your lot contemplates?”

“Oh.” Sandalphon started on their tie.

“Just the tie,” Hastur informed them as she started on her own. “Leave your shirt on. Everything else off.” Her lithe fingers toyed with the button on her trousers, popping it open, then tugging down the zipper to reveal a hint of bright red lace.

Sandalphon couldn’t take their gaze off it as they folded their tie and placed it on one of the benches. As they shrugged out of their coat, Hastur met their gaze with a lazy, sensual grin.

“I thought I felt lace earlier,” Sandalphon explained. 

“Yeah, you like that?” She tugged her trousers down over her hips, revealing the rest of the lace. The pair of panties rode high on her hips, accentuating their slight flare, as well as the green-and-gray bumps scattered along them.

And down, down, down her bony thighs. As they reached her ankles, Hastur turned her back to Sandalphon to step out of them. The underwear exposed half her rear, and the lace seat barely covered the remainder.

“Yeah, I think you do,” she said as she peered over her shoulder again. “Miracled up a nice clean pair, just for you. Go on, then. Get your trousers off like a god angel, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you take ’em off me.”

Sandalphon didn’t bother with folding the rest of their clothing. As they stepped out of their own trousers, they got an idea.”

“What?” Hastur asked with a chuckle as they crawled around the bench. “What the heaven are you doin’ down there?”

Instead of answering, Sandalphon rose up on his knees and grabbed her hips, squeezing them hard enough to bruise. Hastur let out a sharp little cry as they buried their face in her groin.

“Oh fuck,” she hissed, “oh, love, what’s that now?”

The pornography always described the scent of a lover as musky or sweet, for some reason. Sandalphon knew they had little in the way of imagination, but the uniformity of the descriptions had always made them wonder. Surely, given all the ways in which humans desired, touched, and fucked, humans wouldn’t all smell the same? Surely they had some variety there as well?

Well, not that Hastur was human, of course. But her scent was definitely not sweet, or musky.

It reminded them of stagnate water and over-mature hothouse flowers—both of which they’d smelled on a few rare visits to botanical gardens with—

Someone whose groin they weren’t currently mouthing through her panties.

Hastur let out a strangled sound and took a step back. “B-better lie down. Last thing I want’s to tip over and split my head open, you getting me so wet already. Here.”

She turned and flashed her arse at him before settling longways on the mats. She leaned back against the wall as she unfastened the malformed windsor knot of her tie, turning her gaze back to them.

“So, about that mouth job….” She spread her legs and bent them toward her chest, patting the spot between them.

Sandalphon was between her legs in seconds, smashing their lips against the apex of her body. The lips beneath the lace shifted and slipped against their own, parting and coming together.

“Take,” Hastur groaned, sliding a hand over their head, “take ’em off me, Sandy.”

The name sent tingles through them, and Hastur yelped again as Sandalphon hooked their arms beneath her knees and dragged her down onto her back. Shoving her legs together and to the side, Sandalphon leaned in and snagged the band of her panties in their teeth.

“Fuck,” Hastur whispered as Sandalphon crawled backward, yanking them down the slight curve of her thigh. When the other side caught on Hastur’s sharp pelvic bone, Sandalphon merely yanked harder until the fabric slipped over it with the sound of a few popping stitches. They had always enjoyed watching this in pornography, and the little gasps Hastur made as they worked the garment down her long legs were just like those Sandalphon had heard in so many videos.

Hastur wriggled her feet as Sandalphon yanked her underwear over her ankles and dropped it onto the floor away from the mats.

“Eat me out,” she growled. Then: “No,” as Sandalphon threw her legs open again. “No, you too.” She pointed at the sexless space between their thighs. “You grow one too.” She pointed at her wet folds. “Just like this. Then get over my face.”  
  
“Ah.” Sandalphon nodded. “Six-nineing. I’ve always wanted to try that.”

“So stop talking,” Hastur growled, “and ride my face.”

Sandalphon had never known quite what to do when manifesting labia. Lately, humans—at least in the parts of the world they frequented most—had favored exterior folds that politely and with near-machinelike symmetry concealed the inner petals and its clitoris. But after several experiments, Sandalphon had found they preferred an asymmetric outer labia with prominent folds and an even more prominent clitoris. The arrangement made experimentation more pleasurable, in their opinion. As they ground their pussy down against Hastur’s chapped lips, they suspected the duke agreed, given the exuberance with which her tongue attacked it.

Hastur’s own vulva was far more asymmetric, and its folds a pale, foggy gray, framed by an unkempt mass of straw-yellow hair. As Sandalphon dragged their tongue through them, Hastur bucked beneath their lips, as if begging Sandalphon to take in more. And so they did, swirling their tongue through slippery, rigid flesh. It had a crisp, bracing, and, yes, slightly boggy taste that both fascinated them and made them want more.

Hastur hissed and squirmed as Sandalphon dipped their tongue into the reservoir behind those lips, and Sandalphon did the same as Hastur’s tongue entered their channel.

They ground and moaned against each other again and again. Hastur tightened their grip on Sandalphon’s arse cheeks, spreading them slightly as she licked deeper, in longer and longer swirls, even as Sandalphon arched their hips up higher, until their face was as deep into Hastur’s pussy as they could manage.

“Fuck,” Hastur slurred between licks and nudges.

Sandalphon echoed the sentiment as they brushed their nose against Hastur’s tight little clitoris.

“Hngh,” Hastur agreed as she did the same, unleashing a flood from them. With a few more prods, she followed, covering Sandalphon’s lips, jaw, and nose.

Sandalphon barely avoided collapsing on top of her by rolling to their left, back-first into the wall. As it was, the side of their lower leg clipped Hastur’s ear.

“Fuck!” Only this time it wasn’t a pleased sound.

“Sorry,” Sandalphon interrupted a bout of cleaning their lips to say.

“’S fine. Happens,” she dismissed. “Move your bleedin’ knee, though.” Their leg was now splayed across her face.

“I— um.”

“No, here—”

It bumped into the wall as Sandalphon tried moving it, sending their heel right for Hastur’s ear.

“Aa-aah! Shit!”

“I’m sorry. I can’t seem t—”

“Fuck it, stay st— You know what, let me.”

Finally, Hastur wriggled out from Sandalphon’s leg—and happily too, for Sandalphon felt far too boneless to have really been of any help. She inched down the makeshift bed like a worm through mud before rolling onto her forearms and elbowing her way back up to Sandalphon.

“Ah, there we go. Here, shove over.”

“What?”

“On your side, mate. Wriggle around like I did, and—” Hastur’s hands on their side attempted to roll them. “So I can be behind you.”

“Oh.”

After a little more flailing, Sandalphon managed to squirm onto their right side. Hastur grunted in approval before curling up against it, nesting her knees behind the crook of Sandalphon’s.

_Spooning_, Sandalphon remembered as she draped a long arm over their waist. Her head nestled against their shoulder in a soft kiss.

“Hmm.” Sandalphon shut their eyes, enjoying the quivering ache between their thighs.

“Bless it, Sandy,” Hastur chuckled. “When they called it ‘eating pussy,’ they weren’t being figura—liter— They didn’t mean you should actually do it. I’m like raw mutton down there.”

“_You_ are?” Sandalphon shifted their position just enough to tuck their arse back against that sallow stomach.

“Not my fault you manifested a lovely clit the size of a tomato—just as juicy too.” Hastur lazily kissed along their neck, drawing further shivers from their already-shivering body.

Indeed, they were sore, but that wasn’t their concern right now.

“Oh, what’s that?” Hastur asked with a little laugh as Sandalphon ground their arse backward.

“I’m not done with you.”

“Is that right?” Hastur nibbled along their ear as she dragged her hand away from their belly and shimmied down the mats. “And what if I’m done with you?” she asked from somewhere near their hips.

“Then you’d not be fingering me back there, now would you?”

“Guess not.” Hastur squeezed Sandalphon’s rear. “Can’t help it, though. Such a nice arse as this. What?” she asked when Sandalphon peered over his shoulder at her. “You—oh. Didn’t think I meant it, did you? Back at the park.” Sandalphon shivered again as her lips pressed into the swell of one buttock. “There. Told you I didn’t like magazine adverts.” Her teeth dug into the same spot and tugged. “Could eat it out right here, but that’s not what I want to do just now.”

“Why not?” Sandalphon asked with a frown. They’d always enjoyed the idea of this “rimming,” and having Hastur’s tongue perform it would have been far more enjoyable than just the idea. Was she opposed to this sex act?

Hastur kisses their cheek again, then pulled back, only to slide a finger down the cleft of their rear. “Because, love, pussy like yours, even a demon needs to rest her jaw after pulling that orgasm out of you. Besides”—she curled her fingers around their cheeks and eased them apart, running her thumbs around their pucker—“I wanna push into this nice arse instead. Hands and knees now, love.”

As soon as Sandalphon complied, her fingers were back. She circled her thumbs closer and closer to the rim of his hole, Sandalphon arched their rear into the air in a silent plea for more.

“Patience,” Hastur chuckled, giving a light smack to the cheek she’d already abused. “Gotta get you nice and slick back here first. Feels better that way.” As she spoke, something wet and warm coursed from her thumb pads and she began to knead their pucker open.

When they had begun their studies so many centuries ago, Sandalphon hadn’t understood why humans would enjoy penetrating—or even playing with—an orifice not intended for intercourse. Oh, they did with their mouths, of course, but then they were designed for the pleasure of kissing, weren’t they? So, really, one could think of mouths as a type of sex organ. But anuses?

Only when they found out about the prostate did the practice make sense.

Hastur had probably never been similarly confused, though, given how readily her fingers teased the sensitive spot. They curled and caressed, curled and caressed, pushing Sandalphon to the edge only to yank them back from it.

“What do you want, love? More of this?” A brush of her fingers made Sandalphon moan again. “Or do you want my cock now?”

“Cock,” Sandalphon tried to confirm. Only what came out was nothing at all like the word.

“Yeah,” Hastur confirmed, seeming to have understood regardless. “Yeah, thought so.”

Sandalphon moaned in desperation as she withdrew her fingers. But it came back as a roar of pleasure as something larger and much nicer barreled into him, slamming that sensitive area again.  
  
“Oh, you like that, huh?”

They could see Hastur’s leer even without working. Those lovely black eyes, yellowed teeth pulled into a sharp, lustful sneer; her nostrils flared as she pulled out and thrust in again.  
  
Sandalphon gasped as her hands curled around their shoulders and slammed them to the mat, forcing their arse higher.  
  
“Here, you’ll love this.” Hastur grunted. “Better angle,” she stammered as she pulled back, and the lightning bolt of pleasure that shot down Sandalphon’s legs showed she’d been right. Her chest pressed against his back, just as wiry as the rest of her, save for the slight curve of her belly—one not uncommon to a middle-aged human with her shape. Sandalphon could scarcely tell what they liked better: Hastur’s knobby hands as they slid down Sandalphon’s arms and pressed Sandalphon’s own hands harder into the mat; Hastur’s large cock as it beat against their prostate; their soft stomach as it glided up and down their back; or the dig of her pelvic blades with each push.

All of them. All of them.

“Please,” they gasped, “harder!”

“Oh, wants it harder, they say.”

Sandalphon clitoris was burning. It had to be on fire, and everything had ignited it: Hastur’s grip, the swell of her stomach, the bite of her pelvic bone, and the cock tearing their channel apart.

But what Hastur said then surpassed them all.

“I’m gonna ruin you, love. Just you wait.”

Sandalphon spilled all over their thighs with a throat-tearing scream.

Seconds later, their other channel flooded as Hastur roared out her release, both of which crashed through Sandalphon with the force only a duke of hell could deliver.

Sandalphon’s eyes rolled back into their head. When their vision returned, they had collapsed, legs splayed, limbs a splayed and mushy mess.

Hastur lay across them like a heavy blanket, her breathing a sharp, fulfilled counterpoint to theirs.

“Fuck,” they kept saying, “fuckin’ heaven. Fuck.”

Sandalphon’s own fulfilled whimpering agreed.

“Don’t move,” they insisted.

“Yeah, no. No moving.”

“Not yet.”

“Yeah.”

They lay like that as the crescendo of their breathing calmed to a patter.

The fact Hastur was still inside them, soft as she was, could have aroused Sandalphon again, had they the means of—well, “getting it up,” didn’t the saying go?

_But give me a while_, they promised themselves.

“Okay, I’m moving,” Hastur said a few moments later. “What?” she asked as Sandalphon groaned. “Oh, stop it, you big sook. You’ll be more comfortable this way.”

“For what?” Sandalphon turned their head as Hastur settled on her side next to him.

“For a nap. What else?”

Sandalphon stared at them.

Hastur stared back. “What, angel of destruction’s too good for a kip now?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sandalphon said as they turned onto their side to look at her. “I’ve just … well.”

“Never had one, have you?”

Sandalphon stared at her. “We hardly need them!”

“Hm, reckon we don’t need sex either, but”—she gestured expansively—“here we are, yeah?”

“Here we are,” Sandalphon agreed with a sigh.

“So, then.” Hastur scooted closer and pressed her knee against their thighs. “You wanna nap?”

She pressed again, and Sandalphon parted their thighs to let her slide her leg between them. “I’m not sure how,” they admitted. “You see, I’ve made something of a … hobby, I suppose, of studying pornography—”

“Really now? I never would’ve guessed.”

Sandalphon slapped her chest, but not at all with anger. If they’d had to describe the emotion, they might have called it humor.

Which was strange. Angels didn’t laugh, either.

Yet here they were.

“All right, all right. No need to get shirty!” Hastur said, playfully shoving them back. “It’s not as complicated as it sounds. You just lie here, and you stop thinking about things. About everything you think of normally,” she went on when Sandalphon tilted their head in confusion. “So, nothing about work, or saving humans from themselves, or playing the harp or—whatever it is you do Upstairs these days.”

“We don’t play harps. But we do sing.”

“Really? Well, how about that.” Hastur draped an arm over them and cupped the back of their head. “Well, it’s probably okay to think about that, then, but nothin’ else. Just how you feel heavy all over. How your eyes don’t wanna stay open. How you just want to … forget.”

“Forget?”

“Yeah. That’s the best thing about sleep.” Hastur shifted closer and looked into their eyes.

Those pools again.

“I could fall into your eyes,” Sandalphon admitted.

“Yeah?” The smile that curved her lips almost had a hint of gentleness. “Well, that’s a start, then. Just pretend they’re your mind. That they’re all you can see. All you can feel.”

It was dangerous to be this close to a demon. Not only to fuck one, but to lie with one like this, to truly sleep with one. To allow them this close.  
  
Sandalphon stared into her eyes and shifted closer still until their foreheads touched.

“Yeah, forgetting,” Hastur continued as she stroked the back of their head, her fingers running through their hair. “It’s the only place you really can, our memories working like they do. ’S why I like it so much. You understand? That forgetting.”

They didn’t. But now didn’t feel like the right time to admit it.

“Yeah. I think you do.” Hastur shifted close enough to touch her forehead against his. “I think you do.”

In the silence that followed, Sandalphon couldn’t hear anything but her breath.

“To sleep, perchance to dream,” she murmured. “For in that sleep of death what dreams may come. It must give us pause—there’s the respect/That makes calamity of so long life.”

“Hm?” She was right; a heaviness was taking them over.

“Nothin’. Shakespeare. I think,” she admitted after a beat. “Just somethin’ I heard one time that I think is what I feel when I do it. At least anymore. I try to do it a lot, you see. Because no dreams come. I think you may understand that too.”

Sandalphon didn’t understand that either. But, again, now wasn’t the right time to say it.

“Just sleep with me,” Hastur said, stroking their hair again. “And if you wake up first, wait for me. Just … wait, okay? Wait.”

Sandalphon didn’t know why they draped their arm over her too, but there it was, holding on to her tightly.

“Yeah,” Hastur said with something that was called a yawn. “Yeah. Okay.” Another yawn. “Okay. Close your eyes now.”

Sandalphon did…

And sank into the darkness of her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some more sex. :)

Just as she’d said, Sandalphon didn’t dream. They fluttered, like moth wings, from darkness back into the dim light of the room, and the press of Hastur against them.

Sometimes they exchanged a few words (“Feels good?” “Yes.” “Want more?” “Yes.”; “Awake again?” “Yes, Hastur.” “_Duke_ Hastur. Want not to be?” “I think so.”). Sometimes they merely looked into each other’s eyes before closing them again.

Sometimes Hastur rolled them over to kiss them and play with their chest, or grind against their stomach. Sometimes she ground her pussy lips against his thigh; sometimes she pushed into them—into their arse or their pussy. Sometimes Sandalphon rolled her over to capture her lips in a kiss or two before pushing into the same parts. Once they even kissed down her narrow, still-clothed chest to lick that second pair of lips before fucking her deep and hard with their tongue.

Finally, they woke for the last time. Hastur uncurled from their body and sat up. She arched her back as she raised her arms above her head and let out a sound that was both a yawn and moan.

“So,” she said, turning to Sandalphon. “You wanna fuck again? Or you had enough?”

Sandalphon didn’t want to admit they hadn’t had enough. That they couldn’t imagine what “enough” might look like. Instead, they sat up, too, and crushed their lips against hers.

“Oh! Mhh.” Hastur returned the kiss. “Well, then. Guess not. What d’you want, love? Up your arse? Inside your pussy? Inside mine?”

Sandalphon showed her by pushing her against the wall, just beneath the window, and attacking her lips with their own as their fingers sought out her wet center.

“Ah, I see,” Hastur said before kissing them again. “Greedy little bastard, ain’t you?”

“Not greedy,” Sandalphon insisted as they added a second finger, exploring her wet, crenelated walls. “Angels feel no greed.”

“Well, what would you call it, then?” she asked between kisses.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know. All the words I can think of mean the same thing.”

_Desire. _

But did they dare say that?

“How’s _want _work?” Hastur asked, as if she could read their thoughts. When Sandalphon didn’t answer, she grinned against their lips. “Yeah,” she drawled. “Yeah. Okay, then.”

And Sandalphon fingered her to a screaming release.

“All right,” they said as Hastur slumped against them. “All right. I think that’s enough.”

“Mhm. Any more and I think my clit’d fall off, and then what would we do?” Hastur laughed as she leaned back against the wall. “Bless it,” she chuckled. “Normally you’d have to fuck a succubus or an incubus, getting that kind of service.”

“Service?” And there was that drop in their stomach again. “I see.”

“I mean,” Hastur said, squeezing their hand. “That’s not it. I tell a lie. It’s just a job to them. You don’t have that job.”

Sandalphon nodded, and the pain dissipated as they kissed her again.

The light in the window caught Sanalphon’s attention then, and they turned their head to study it more fully. It had that honeyed color it got as autumn closed in on summer; that hue that meant noon had long since passed.

“Is it getting late?” Hastur asked, shifting forward and following their gaze.

“Around three o’clock, I should think.” Sandalphon had reservations about easing up onto their feet, and not only because everything from their waist on down felt about as steady as high tide.

This would be the end of it, wouldn’t it? They’d both given each other what they wanted, and now she would ask them to leave.

And then what? They’d go back to heaven and … stare out the windows as the earth revolved around them? Spend the rest of an endless day staying as far away from Gabriel’s office as they could? Flinch every time he raised his phone to his ear?

But somehow, that didn’t feel like their biggest problem now.

Being alone, however….

“Would you like to go somewhere?”

Surely she would say no. Laugh in their face. Tell them—

“Where’re you thinking?”

_Oh. _

_Well._

But she was looking at them with curiosity in those beautiful black eyes, so they had to answer.

“I don’t travel to earth often,” they admitted. “And then only really to clothing shops. Or tailors.”

Hastur snorted, but she had the grace not to sneer at why that was.

“But, well…. I suppose, if I were to have an interest in anything myself, it would be—torments.”

Those beautiful eyes widened. “What?”

“Not like you’d think,” Sandalphon said hurriedly. “I’m rarely permitted to smite anymore. Not only group smitings, either.”

Hastur nodded. “I see.” Her grin showed a missing premolar, which they hadn’t noticed before. It had some charm.

“Individual smitings.” Sandalphon shrugged. “Rare occasions only. It makes my hands itch, not beng able to.”

“Yeah, I saw that sword.” That smile got sharper. “Big.” She glanced down at his bare cock.

Sandalphon shook their head and tsked. “I thought we weren’t going for another round,” they scolded.

“Sorry.” Her eyes looked back into theirs again. “What I meant was, it’s not exactly like the others’, is it?”

“Well, I was allowed to make some modifications,” Sandalphon explained. “Took at least a century of discussion, and paperwork, and me bringing up my flawless record—sometimes less than subtly. Things move slowly up there, you could say.”

“Mh. Downstairs too.” Hastur’s tone was something like sympathetic.

“Really, the day I got to remake it was one of the happiest….” Sandalphon’s eyes widened. “Hm. I’d not have called it that, at the time.”

_Or even earlier today. Happiness is a human feeling. _But want was, too, wasn’t it? And they had wanted that new sword so badly their hands had itched to model it on the human claymore. To hold it tightly in both hands when it was done.

To swing it at an entire nation of rot.

_“Serving the Lord is it’s own reward!”_ So the poster proclaimed.

And that was true. But surely that truth didn’t preclude wanting a more effective weapon.

“Woolgatherin’.”

Sandalphon blinked from their thoughts. They worried they had offended until Hastur winked at them.

_And why do I care whether or not I offend a demon? And such a dangerous one as this?_

They needed to remember Hastur was a demon, and a duke of hell.

“So,” Hastur said as she stood and stepped from the mats. “Torments?”

She located her panties and tugged them up her legs, concealing that delicious pussy, though just barely.

“Torments,” Sandalphon said before their thoughts could run away from them. “I may not be able to smite them, but I can torment them. Pangs of conscience, you see. Plenty of the greatest sinners have one, despite what they do. Which means….”

“You can smite that part of ’em.” Hastur’s smile was all nails and needles now.

“Exactly. Thought, I’m rarely permitted to do so as openly as I’d….”

“Wish.”

_ “Sandalphon, really. Threatening to smite a teenager for stealing a pack of cigarettes!”_

_“It’s a sin, Gabriel.”_

_“Yes, I know!” Gabriel threw his hands into the air. “But we write those up, Sandalphon. We don’t bring out our—whatever that thing is that you turned your sword into.”_

_“A claymore. It’s called a clay—”_

_Gabriel waved their answer away as if it had been a foul-smelling smoke. “This isn’t like you to misuse your authority. I’m going to have to write this up if you do it again.” His violet eyes had been almost indigo as he looked at them. “You know, I don’t often say this. I like to keep things positive up here. But I am really, really disappointed in you, Sandalphon.” He sighed. “_So_ disappointed. That’s all.” _

_And he’d turned away to get back to his paperwork. Sandalphon had left his office, feeling as heavy as a bag of stones tossed into the ocean._

Hastur’s snort pulled them from the unpleasant reverie.

“You know what I think, Long Face?”

“Not really, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“You’re right. And here it is: fuck head office.”

Sandalphon took a step back, hand covering their mouth.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Hastur’s tone was casual as she tugged her trousers up her legs and tucked her filthy shirt into them. “You give ’em how many millenniums of service, and the minute you fuck up because, Satan forbid, you ain’t a fuckin’ damnation machine, then it’s ‘I’m zzooo dizzzappointed in you, Hazzztur. You’re sacked.’ Wham, bam, fuck you, ma’am.” Hastur jerked up the zipper of her trousers and yanked her mackintosh from the bench. “So, fuck ’em, I say. Fuck ’em all.”

Though she was talking about herself, Sandalphon knew she saw them clearly this time, rather than an empty space into which she could void her rheum.

“He told me the same thing once,” they said as they located their underwear and stepped into it.

Hastur paused with her boot midway up her foot. “Well, fuck him, too, then. Smug bastard. Tell me: what does he do, exactly? Other’n try on clothes, fuck my b—ex-boss, and act a fool?”

Sandalphon opened their mouth to correct her, to come to Gabriel’s defense. To do—something other than what they did.

“Hell if I know,” they said as they settled their trousers around their hips. “Usually paperwork. Or team meetings.”

“And what’s that when it’s at home?”

“I’ve never understood them myself.” Sandalphon rearranged their tie into a more suitable flare. “Normally he just congratulates us for our work, says ‘synergy’ and ‘syzygy’ a lot, and smiles even more.”

“What the heaven does that mean?” Hastur tied her mackintosh around her waist and straightened her wig, which had skewed, revealing the face of the frog that road atop her head.

Sandalphon shrugged.

_I wasn’t angry at her. I was angry at _him_. _

_And I don’t need a demon to tempt me to say what I’m about to._

“You’re right. Fuck him.”

Hastur’s mouth opened into an O. “Wow. That bad, huh?”

“I’m afraid so.” Sandalphon slid into their jacket. “What would you say to a little rough justice, Hastur?”

“_Duke _H— You know, I don’t know why I even bother telling you that anymore.” Hastur slipped her hand into her mackintosh and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “All right,” she said, after lighting one and puffing out a gust of smoke. “You’ve got me curious now. You mean roughing some no-good bastards up in some dark alleys? Because let me tell you, lover, that’s my idea of a good time.”

Sandalphon shook their head. “I’m afraid I’m not permitted to do that, either, unless I have specific orders.”

“Oh-kay,” Hastur said quizzically. “Then…?”

“But I’m not forbidden from having a nice little … talk with anyone whose sinfulness makes me concerned. Well,” they said with a shrug, “I’ve never been ordered _not_ to, at least.”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission?” Hastur chuckled before taking another drag. This time she blew the smoke from her nose, reminding Sandalphon of a particularly attractive dragon. “You_ do_ realize that a demon coined that phrase, don’t you?”

“Broken clocks are right twice a day. You do realize an angel coined that one, yes?”

Hastur laughed, smoke pouring out through her teeth. “All right, then. Let’s fuck off before we waste more primo conversation time, yeah.”

Sandalphon held out their arm before they realized what they were doing. But Hastur only regarded it for a moment before slipping hers through it.

“Okay, you big bastard. How d’you intend to deal out this ‘rough justice’ of yours?”

“Well,” Sandalphon said as they led her from the fetid room, “here’s what I’m thinking….”

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic comes from a song lyric, just as the titles of most of my fics do. In this instance, the song is Peter Gabriel's "I Grieve." It's a song that taught me how to grieve the death of a family member. While the song is about that subject, I see it as applying to any aspect of grief, including grief over not being able to have the kind of relationship with someone that you would like to have. Watch this space for a playlist to this fic.


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